Prey (Jefferson Winter)

by James Carol

  Winter got out of the BMW and stared up at the darkening sky. There were no stars yet, no moon either, but they’d be along soon enough. A sky this clear, this far from any large cities, you were looking at the perfect canvas for the full show. He walked around to Mendoza’s side of the car. The detective was staring up at the house. Since they’d got there, they’d seen no signs of life. This far off the beaten track, if Amelia had been home, he would have expected her to come out and see who was on her land. At the very least, a light or two should have gone on.

  No lights. No sounds. No Amelia.

  There was no sign of a vehicle either. You couldn’t live way out here in the woods without transport. It was just too impractical. Granville Clarke had said Amelia worked as a nurse over in Rochester, so that’s where she probably was right now, no doubt pulling a night shift.

  ‘Here’s a question,’ said Mendoza. ‘Why the hell would anyone in their right mind choose to live in a place like this? I mean, you heard what Clarke said. The whole town guessed both the kids were being abused, and had been for years. So why would Amelia Price stay?’

  Winter didn’t say anything for a moment. He knew better than anyone that the past clung to you, keeping you stuck and treading water. A memory of his mother filled his head, this one from when they were still living in California. His father had been arrested a couple of weeks earlier so it was just the two of them. He’d woken in the night to the sound of crying and found her sobbing in the living room. Even though she knew exactly what her husband was, she’d still grieved for him. The mourning period ended when she put the house on the market. Looking back now, he saw that her heart had never really left that house.

  ‘Well there’s money, for starters. Looking at this house, it’s a safe bet that the Prices weren’t rolling in it. Where would she go with no money? Also, it’s her home and, no matter what hell you’ve been through, that’s where your heart stays trapped.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I guess. Okay, here’s another question: how come she hasn’t strung a noose up in the barn? I mean, this place goes beyond depressing. If I had to live here, I’d kill myself.’

  Winter looked up at the house, then glanced over at the barn. ‘You’ve got a point there.’

  ‘I’m thinking nobody’s at home.’

  ‘And I’m thinking you might be right. Maybe she’s working a late shift.’

  ‘Hold that thought.’

  Mendoza took out her cell phone and made a quick call. It took Winter two seconds to work out that she was talking to Hitchin, and another two seconds to work out that they hadn’t yet found what hospital Amelia was working at. The rest of the conversation was taken up with Mendoza filling Hitchin in on what they’d been up to in Hartwood, and Hitchin giving an update on the New York end of the investigation.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ she asked as she hung up and put her phone away.

  ‘I got what I needed to. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Try the glove box.’

  Winter clicked it open and rummaged around until he found one. He tore Granville’s note in half and scribbled down a short message asking Amelia to call his cell.

  ‘Nice writing,’ Mendoza remarked. They both looked down at his scrawl. ‘You realise that even if she could read that, she’s going to take one look and pitch it in the trash.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means we’ll see.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you, but you’re doing that thing where you pretend to be all mysterious. You’re thinking that Amelia’s our mystery woman, aren’t you?’

  ‘And you’re not.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t until thirty seconds ago. After all, you did a pretty good job of convincing me that it wasn’t her back in Clarke’s office. So is Amelia our woman or not?’

  Winter shrugged. ‘For now how about we class her as a person of interest?’

  ‘In which case we need to talk to her sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Agreed. The problem is that she’s not at home and we still don’t know which hospital she works at.’ He held up the note. ‘This is all we’ve got at the moment. If Amelia is our mystery woman then I’m figuring that she won’t be able to resist getting in touch. If it’s not her then she’ll probably pitch it in the trash.’

  He folded the note in half, wrote ‘Amelia’ on the front, then made his way up the porch steps. The old wood creaked underfoot, and the air smelled of decay. A couple of rust-streaked metal chairs sat abandoned near the door. Over his shoulder, he caught sight of high branches backlit by the sun. Before the rot had set in, before the nightmares, this would have been a good place to come with a whisky and a cigarette to watch the day wind down.

  On the off chance that Amelia was in and hadn’t heard them arrive, he knocked on the door. No footsteps, no signs of life. Winter knelt down and pushed the note through the narrow gap at the bottom of the door. Then he straightened up, creaked back down the stairs and walked over to the car. He climbed in, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘So what now?’ Mendoza asked.

  ‘Since it doesn’t look as if we have any reason to head back to New York any time soon, I vote that we go and find somewhere to stay.’

  26

  Myrtle House was a mom-and-pop guesthouse situated opposite the cemetery way up at the north end of Main Street. It looked Victorian, but there was no way it was that old. For a start, the location was all wrong. If this house had been built in the 1800s, it wouldn’t have been built here. Land had been cheaper and more plentiful back then. This site wouldn’t even have been a fourth or a fifth choice, because there would have been plenty of sites with a better view. You only built opposite a cemetery when your options were severely limited.

  Mendoza parked out front and they climbed from the car. Sunset was still half an hour away and the sky was lit up like a Van Gogh, purples, pinks, blues and greys all swirling together. The guesthouse was painted light grey, and the small front yard was tidy and well-maintained. There were rooms on the first and second floors, dormers protruding from the attic rooms. A VACANCIES plaque hung beneath an illuminated sign that had Myrtle House printed in neat gold letters.

  Mendoza popped the trunk and Winter grabbed his suitcase and heaved it out. It was a top-of-the-range black Samsonite that had seen plenty of action. After escaping from the Seventh Precinct’s interview room, they’d detoured via his hotel to pick it up. His whole life was in that case, everything he needed to get through the day, which wasn’t much. Clean clothes, clean underwear, his laptop, a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of single malt whisky. Mendoza’s bag was much smaller, and presumably contained everything she needed to survive a couple of nights out here in the middle of nowhere. Winter made an ‘after-you’ gesture, and they climbed the steps to the main entrance. He followed her inside, the wheels of his suitcase trundling over the hard wooden floor.

  The guy behind the desk welcomed them with a beaming smile and a cheery ‘good evening’. He was well into his sixties, smartly dressed in a white button-down cotton shirt and chinos. Judging by the wide smile he was glad of the extra business.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Two rooms, please. If you’ve got anything that resembles a suite I’ll take that. If not I’ll take the best room you’ve got.’

  The guy behind the desk looked him up and down. Winter could almost read his thoughts. He was probably thinking about the extra dollars a suite would bring, but then doubting that anyone who looked as scruffy as he did would pay extra for anything.

  ‘What my colleague is trying to say’, added Mendoza, ‘is that we’d like your two best rooms.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am. The Presidential Suite is currently unoccupied, and I’ve got a very nice room on the first floor that I think would meet with your approval.’

  ‘We’ll take them.’

  They went through the paperwork and Mendoza paid with her card. Then the gu
y showed them to their rooms, filling the silence with small talk and empty observations. Winter’s suite was in the converted attic at the top of the house, two floors above Mendoza’s room. He dragged his suitcase inside and abandoned it in the middle of the floor. The décor was no real surprise. Dark wood and sepia-tinted framed photographs, and plenty of lacy Victoriana frills and decorations. The window looked out over the cemetery.

  To call the room a suite pushed the definition. At best, it was a large room. Still, it had an en-suite bathroom, and it seemed clean enough, and it made the tatty suite the NYPD had booked for him seem like a palace. There was no way in hell a president had ever stayed here, though, or ever would. Winter had been named after Thomas Jefferson, president number three, and he reckoned that was as close as they were ever going to get to hosting a president.

  He had just started arranging the room when there was a gentle knock on the door. ‘Give me a second,’ he called out. He put his laptop bag down on the bed then opened the door. Mendoza was standing there. She had a pained expression on her face and was biting her lip.

  ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’ Mendoza was looking at her hands, her feet, anywhere so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.

  ‘You’re starting to freak me out. Whatever’s on your mind, just say it.’

  ‘I was out of order,’ she blurted out.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Earlier, at the Reeds’ house. I shouldn’t have said all that stuff about you being like your father.’

  Winter waved the apology away. ‘Is that all. I thought something serious had happened.’

  ‘I was out of order,’ she said again.

  ‘No you weren’t. You had something you wanted to say and you said it. I’d much rather that than you feeling like you can’t say what’s on your mind. That’s not going to help us. Anyway, one of the advantages of having a serial killer for a father is that I don’t take offence easily.’

  ‘How about I buy you dinner? That could be my way of saying sorry.’

  ‘I appreciate the invite, but I can’t. I’ve got a date.’

  Mendoza frowned. She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again.

  ‘Yeah, I know, who’d ask me on a date?’

  ‘Since when? Who?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell me who the lucky girl is?’

  ‘Who says it’s a girl?’

  Mendoza opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  ‘You know, you remind me a little of someone I used to work with. She liked the world to think she was a hard ass, too, but deep down she was a pussycat.’

  ‘I am not a pussycat.’

  ‘Yeah, I believe you.’

  ‘Okay, if you won’t let me buy you dinner, how about I buy you breakfast instead?’

  Winter considered this a second. ‘I tell you what, if it’s going to help you to feel better, how about you tell me the real reason you were going to Vegas?’

  ‘I already told you, I like the shows.’

  ‘And I believe that as much now as I did then.’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because everyone knows about Mendoza the cop, but nobody knows a damn thing about your personal life.’

  ‘That’s because it’s personal.’

  ‘Look, anything you tell me stays with me. I promise I won’t breathe a word to your colleagues. And anyway, when this is over, I’m out of here. Chances are you’ll never see me again.’

  ‘That’s what I thought last time.’

  Winter said nothing and Mendoza let out a long sigh.

  ‘Okay, okay. I split up with my boyfriend a couple of months ago. He got fed up with coming second to work, and I can’t say I blame him. He was always going on about taking a vacation and I always had an excuse for why it wasn’t a good time. He was the one who wanted to go to Vegas.’

  ‘So, what? You figured it was a case of better late than never?’

  ‘Something like that. And, yes, before you say anything else, I know how crazy that sounds. All I can say in my defence is that it made perfect sense to me when I made the booking.’

  ‘You say he was your boyfriend, but this wasn’t some casual thing, was it? How long had you guys been together?’

  ‘Twelve years.’

  ‘Twelve years. That’s not a fling, that’s a marriage.’

  ‘And that’s a whole other issue.’

  ‘Okay, here’s a question. If you had the opportunity to do it all over again, would you change anything?’

  ‘I’d like to say yes, but that would be a lie.’ Mendoza shook her head and gave a small laugh. ‘The one thing they don’t tell you when you sign up is that this isn’t just a job, it’s a way of life.’ She paused and caught his eye. ‘I don’t have to tell you that, though, do I?’

  She turned and walked off along the corridor. Winter watched her until she disappeared around the corner, then went back into his room and gently closed the door.

  27

  Winter attached the speakers to his laptop and navigated to his Mozart file. He selected Piano Concerto No. 24 in C minor and hit play. It was six-thirty, so he had half an hour to shower and change before he went out.

  This concerto had been written towards the end of Mozart’s life and was widely considered to be a masterpiece. Influential, too. Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in C minor was inspired by this. It was also something of an oddity in that it was one of only two minor-key concertos that Mozart wrote, and one of only three where the first movement was in 3/4 time. Technical details aside, Winter loved it for the drama of the opening movement. And the playful variations on the main theme near the start of the third movement always made him smile.

  Over the years he’d collected recordings of every piece that Mozart had written. For some of the more popular pieces he had three or four versions. His aim was to own the defining performances of each work. It was a never-ending task. Mozart was more popular now than he’d ever been, so new recordings were appearing all the time.

  Eyes closed, he stood in the middle of the room conducting an imaginary orchestra. It was springtime in Vienna, and he was in the original Burgtheater, and the orchestra was on fire. He silenced the strings, leaving space for the woodwind to do their thing, and then the clarinet floated in with a hint of the main melody.

  Heaven.

  Winter opened his eyes and sat down on the bed to check his emails. For once there weren’t any requests for his help, which made a welcome change. Most days there would be at least one request. Two or three weren’t unusual.

  There was an email from the lead investigator in the Paris case wondering why he hadn’t appeared at Charles de Gaulle airport. He was pissed off, but there was nothing Winter could do about that. Right now his priority was finding the blonde. And anyway, time was on their side there. That killer was on a two-week cycle and the last body had been found a couple of days ago. Winter typed out a quick reply to say that he’d been unavoidably detained in New York and would get there as soon as he could. He hit send, reckoning that would buy him a few days.

  Next he poured a whisky, then hung out the window to smoke a cigarette. Full dark had fallen and there was an ominous low moon hanging in the sky. Winter looked up at the stars and wondered how many of them were already dead. The idea that he could be looking at stars that had died millions of years ago had always amazed and fascinated him.

  For a while he smoked and sipped and thought things through, the cold night air blowing into his face, the silence broken by the occasional vehicle and a dog barking off in the distance. It had been a long day. He was looking forward to climbing into bed and shutting his eyes. Best-case scenario, he might manage eight hours of unconsciousness and wake up feeling like a new man. Unfortunately, four or five hours of disturbed sleep was probably more likely.

  Even though he was trying not to, his thoughts kept straying back to the mystery
woman. She was a puzzle, and when he got his head into a puzzle he just couldn’t let go. It was just the way he was wired. He had one of those brains that never quite stopped. The best he could hope for was to get it ticking over in a lower gear for a while. And figuring the puzzle out didn’t help. Not really. There were always going to be new puzzles to solve.

  Winter shut his eyes and imagined himself back into the diner again. He could smell the grease in the air. He could hear Elvis, and the clatter of the dying heater. And he could see the blonde reflected in the window. She walked down the aisle between the counter and the tables and came over to where he was sitting. They spoke for a bit, then the cook appeared with his breakfast and she grabbed hold of him and stabbed him in the eye. Winter rewound the memory and played it again with everything slowed down to half speed. He heard those soft padding footsteps, watched her come closer. He went over every word that had passed between them, looking for hidden meanings and subtext, trying to crack the code.

  Nothing.

  He trawled through the memory again, this time at quarter speed, looking for anything he might have missed. He felt he was on the verge of a breakthrough, but wasn’t sure what that breakthrough might look like. Then again, that might just be wishful thinking.

  The diner door in his head banged shut, the woman walked off into the night, and Winter was left none the wiser. Tonight he’d get a halfway decent sleep, and tomorrow he’d hopefully wake up with a clearer head and a less jaded perspective. Sleep usually did wonders for getting his head straight.

  He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase and laid them on the bed. Clean underwear, a fresh pair of Levis, and a T-shirt that had a photograph of a psychedelically stoned Lennon taken during his Sergeant Pepper days. The clothes were laid out head to toe, like the person wearing them had suddenly vanished. All except the socks, which were in a neat ball on the pillow. He never bothered unpacking because he never stayed anywhere longer than two weeks. What was the point in putting your clothes in drawers and hanging them up in closets if you were going to be moving on in a couple of days?