Dead of Winter

by Annelise Ryan

  Richmond comes back into the room with Brenda Joiner on his heels.

  “Mr. Paulsen, this is Officer Joiner. She will drive you to the Sorenson Motel. We’ve already booked a room for you there for one night, on us.”

  Paulsen looks pleasantly surprised by this. He gets up and nods at Brenda before looking at Richmond. “Will you keep me informed of your progress in the case?”

  “As much as I can,” Richmond says.

  Paulsen frowns at this equivocation, but lets it go.

  Brenda, in a show of brilliant intuitive timing, chooses this moment to step up and take hold of Paulsen’s arm. “Come with me, sir, and I’ll get you settled.” She deftly steers Paulsen from the room, and as they walk down the hallway, I hear her chatting with him about the coming weather, always a common and safe topic of conversation in Wisconsin, particularly in the winter.

  Richmond rakes a hand through his hair, his eyes big. “Phew!” he says. “That was intense.”

  “It was.”

  “I’m going to head for that convenience store now,” he says. “Unless you need something else from me?”

  “No, I’m good. Go ahead. I’m going to finish some stuff up here and then hopefully head home. Let us know what you find, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  Richmond leaves and I go back to the viewing room to get Liesel’s body and return it to the fridge. Before leaving the cooler, I lift the cover on her body and look for the two moles her father had described. They are there all right, and I realize then that some small part of me was hoping they wouldn’t be, that it was all a big mistake, and Liesel was still alive out there somewhere. Feeling sadness wash over me, I cover her up and head for Izzy’s office to update him.

  “All done?” Izzy says when I knock on his opened office door. He is working on the mountains of paperwork that go with his job.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Was it awful?” he asks, grimacing.

  “It was intense, but it could’ve been worse. I can only imagine the pain that man has gone through.”

  Izzy nods, and for the next few seconds, neither of us speaks as we ponder the horror of this parental nightmare.

  “You did a phenomenal job on Liesel’s body, and I think that helped,” I say eventually, trying to find something good in the middle of all this sobering sadness. “She looked good, considering.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I worked hard on her. I couldn’t help but imagine that it was me in that man’s position, looking at Juliana.”

  “It’s hard not to make comparisons like that,” I say.

  “This is going to be a tough one, Mattie. You have to realize that we may never be able to figure out who’s behind Liesel’s death. Our best hope right now is to find her sister. At least that way Liesel’s death isn’t totally in vain. Have the cops made any progress?”

  “Some,” I say. And then I update him on the latest findings. When I’m done, I leave his office and go back to the library, settling in at my desk. I wake up my computer in preparation for tackling my never-ending stack of paperwork. This part of my job can be tedious at times, but there are occasions when I welcome it. The boring, by-rote processes involved provide a welcome distraction from some of the harsher, grittier aspects of my job. Today, however, I find it hard to focus. My mind keeps alternating between images of Mr. Paulsen and his grief-stricken, wounded face, and Liesel’s beautiful, but bruised and lifeless, face. I muddle through the best I can, trying to turn the dark part of my brain off, but it’s like an itch I can’t quite reach. A little before five, I give up, shut my computer down, and call Hurley.

  “I’m done for the day,” I tell him. “Are you going to be home for dinner?”

  “I’ll grab something here,” he says, and I frown with disappointment. I had figured this would be the case, but hope springs eternal. “Richmond should be back soon with the security footage from that store, and I’m working on some contacts to get a lead on docs who do abortions that aren’t strictly on the up-and-up.”

  “Okay. Try not to work too late.”

  “Give Matthew a kiss for me,” he says, letting me know that he isn’t planning on being home before our son’s bedtime.

  “I will. Love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I hang up and head home, feeling an almost desperate need not only to see Emily and Matthew, but hug them both tightly and never let go.

  CHAPTER 12

  I swing by Izzy and Dom’s place to pick up Matthew and find him on his stomach on the living-room floor, working on a wooden puzzle that consists of six giant pieces. Juliana is sitting next to him, and every time Matthew puts a puzzle piece in place, she promptly removes it and sets it on the floor.

  “They’ve been doing that for nearly an hour now,” Dom says as the two of us stand nearby, watching them. “I keep expecting Matthew to get mad at her, but he doesn’t. He’s very patient and even laughs sometimes when she takes his pieces out. He’s a sweet kid, Mattie.”

  This tiny bit of praise warms my heart until I remember the temper tantrum Matthew had in the grocery store back in December when I refused to buy the box of sugar-crusted cereal he wanted. The only reason he wanted it was because he liked the picture of the cartoon animals on the front of the box. I’d bought the cereal once before because he asked for it, and he hated the stuff and wouldn’t eat it. That didn’t matter on this occasion, however. When I said no, Matthew flung himself sideways in the cart seat, a dramatic effort worthy of an Oscar. Then he proceeded to kick his feet, cry, and tell me he hated me. I did my best to ignore this outburst and smile placidly at the shoppers who stared at us, some of them looking annoyed, some of them looking judgmental, and one slightly disheveled woman wearing stained clothing and mismatched shoes, pushing a cart loaded with kiddie food, who looked sympathetic.

  Matthew kept up his theatrics, increasing his volume, all the way through the checkout line and into the parking lot. Once he was in the car, he was so exhausted from his efforts that he fell instantly asleep in his car seat, a flushed, sweaty mess despite the cold temperatures outside. It was such a relief to have him quiet, I decided to drive around for a while rather than heading straight home. I didn’t want to wake him, but I didn’t feel like I could leave him in the car in the driveway in the midst of near-zero temperatures, either. So I’d driven around for half an hour, touring neighborhoods in town and checking out the holiday decorations. When I did finally go home, realizing as I unpacked my groceries that the ice cream I’d bought had melted, Matthew had miraculously transformed into the sweet, leg-hugging, thumb-sucking, “wuv-you-mammy” toddler I adored. Some days, my son was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  I thank Dom for watching my son, give Juliana a kiss and a hug, and then pack Matthew up for home. Trying to get his arms and legs into his snowsuit is like trying to thread a needle with a limp noodle. I eventually get it done, but I’m sweating like the proverbial pig when I do. The outside air is a relief initially, but it doesn’t take long for the cold to snake its long, icy fingers beneath the sleeves and hem of my coat, freezing my sweat to my skin.

  When I arrive at home, I see Emily’s car is already in the garage. She’s only been driving for four months, and this is her first time on wintry roads. We bought her a four-wheel-drive vehicle with plenty of safety features, just in case, and, so far, she’s proven to be a sensible, cautious driver. But the threat of tomorrow’s storm, the first big one in what has thus far been a mild winter, snow-wise if not temperaturewise, makes me nervous.

  I find Emily seated at the kitchen counter, schoolbooks spread out around her. As soon as Matthew enters the kitchen, she drops her pencil, hops off her stool, and squats down, arms open wide.

  “There’s my favorite brother,” she coos, and Matthew runs headlong into her arms, beaming beneath her praise, blissfully oblivious to the fact that he is her only brother. “Let’s get you out of this crazy suit,” she says, releasing him and
unzipping his snowsuit.

  “Kwazy shoot,” Matthew says, and then he proceeds to help Emily undress him. He helps Emily when she puts him in his snowsuit, too, apparently reserving the noodle act for his father and me.

  “How was school today?” I ask Emily.

  “The usual,” she says. “They’re probably going to close early tomorrow with the storm that’s coming. If you want, I could stay home with Matthew. I don’t have any tests or anything scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “You shouldn’t skip school,” I say, though there isn’t a great deal of conviction in my voice. Emily is an A student who is meticulous with her assignments. She likes school. Plus, I would feel better knowing she’s not on the road.

  “It would be safer for me to stay home with Matthew,” she says, continuing the debate. “That way, you don’t have to drive him anywhere, and I don’t have to drive, either.”

  I consider the idea and it’s the appeal of getting up in the morning and going to work without the hassle of getting Matthew up, fed, dressed, and out the door that seals the deal.

  “Okay, you win,” I tell her.

  I’m rewarded for my capitulation with a broad smile from Emily and a cheer from my son, who says, “We win! We win!”

  “What do you guys want for dinner?” I ask.

  “Mackachee!” Matthew hollers.

  Mac and cheese is his most basic diet staple, and one of the few things I can cook. I had a bookcase built into the cabinetry when we designed the kitchen, and after we moved in, I stocked it with a variety of cookbooks. I swore to myself that I was going to learn to cook better—or at all—but so far, I haven’t tackled the task, and the space between two of the cookbooks is now filled with take-out menus.

  “You had mac and cheese last night, and the night before,” I tell Matthew. “Not tonight.”

  “How about pizza?” Emily offers. “We could order out, or cook up one of the ones in the freezer.”

  “Let’s order,” I say. “With the storm coming, we might have to hit up our household reserves, so let’s save those for now. In fact, let’s order a little extra so we’ll have some leftovers.”

  “Works for me,” Emily says.

  “Works for me,” Matthew echoes with perfect pronunciation.

  An hour later, the three of us are seated at the table in the breakfast nook, Emily and I enjoying pizza with tons of toppings, while Matthew works on his plain cheese pizza, the only kind he will eat. Toward the end of the meal, my phone rings and I see it’s Hurley. I answer, getting up from the table and moving away so Matthew won’t be able to hear. My phone conversations with Hurley often include things that aren’t appropriate for little ears.

  “What’s up?” I say, avoiding any preamble.

  “I need you,” he says in a sultry tone.

  “Your timing sucks.”

  I hear him chuckle. “I need you to come with me to pay a visit to a certain doctor,” he says. “I got a lead on a guy who does a lot of back-room abortions for certain types of women, a strictly cash business. I want you to come with me both to help me interpret if he starts throwing a bunch of medicalese at me, and also to play a potential client.”

  “You want me to pretend to be a woman looking for an abortion?” I keep my voice low as I ask this, and glance back toward the table to make sure Emily and Matthew haven’t overheard.

  “Can Emily watch Matthew?” Hurley asks, neatly sidestepping my question.

  “I’m sure she can.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Bring your earbuds. And try to look like a hooker.”

  This last request so stuns me that I am momentarily speechless. By the time I find my voice and my indignation, my husband has disconnected the call. Puzzled, but also a little intrigued, I walk back out to the kitchen.

  “Em, can you watch Matthew for a few hours?”

  “Of course,” she says. “But on such short notice, I feel I should charge at least double the usual rate.”

  She smiles coyly, and I can’t help but smile back. The kid is a top-notch negotiator. We started a savings fund for her a couple of years ago, and she put most of her babysitting money into it with the goal of being able to save up enough to buy a car once she was old enough to get her license. Hurley and I then decided to buy her a car, opting for something new rather than anything used, which is all she could have afforded, because we wanted something with all of the latest safety features and a hands-free calling system. As a result, Emily is now driving a cherry-red Jeep Cherokee. She uses her savings to buy gas, pay for her own insurance on the car, and to buy whatever other items she wants, though she tends to be a frugal girl. As a result, her fund now has well over three thousand dollars in it.

  I head for my bedroom and sift through my makeup—I’m a bit of a minimalist in that regard, so doing myself up hook-erish won’t be easy. I put on some lipstick, a heavy dose of blush, eye shadow, and liner, plus three coats of mascara. As a last touch, I tease and spray my hair into something resembling the big-hair styles that were popular back in the 1980s. Then I go to my closet and find the tightest pair of pants I can—taken from the end of my closet that holds my skinny clothes for those rare occasions when I manage to drop a few pounds—and a low-cut blouse that will show off my ample cleavage. It isn’t much, and a quick appraisal in the mirror convinces me I look more like a pathetic, middle-aged woman with a bad case of body-image blindness than a hooker, but it will have to do. By the time I get downstairs and don my coat and boots, Hurley is waiting out front.

  I climb in his truck—a blue 4x4 that we bought at the same time we bought Emily’s car—and he eyes me with one eyebrow arched.

  “Oh, my,” he says.

  “Shut up. This was your idea.”

  “Do you have the earbuds?”

  I dig them out of my pocket and hand them to him. Then I gasp as he takes out his pocketknife and cuts one of the buds from the wire.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “I’ll buy you a new pair.” He hands me back the wire with one bud still attached and slips the severed bud into his coat pocket.

  “Where are we going?” I ask once we are under way and I see that we are heading away from town.

  “Poynette. We’re going to the home of a doctor who lost his license a few years back for overprescribing narcotics and engaging in some shady billing practices. Apparently, he now runs an illegal clinic and surgery in some part of his house, where he does abortions and a few other medical procedures that people don’t want to have done at an official office or medical center.”

  “How do you know this? Did your FBI contact tell you about him?” Hurley nods, and I shake my head in dismay. “So they know he’s doing this stuff and they just look the other way? Why don’t they bust him and shut him down?”

  “Because the guy has some very valuable contacts in the criminal world, as well as a good safety record for his medical procedures. The people he treats do well, so the FBI looks the other way with regard to the illegal medical stuff, and periodically watches his house to see who might be coming and going.” Hurley pauses and shrugs. “I imagine they’ll bust him one of these days, but for now he’s more valuable to them if they let him continue.”

  “So the plan for us tonight is . . .”

  Hurley looks at me, winks, and smiles drolly. “A bit of role playing. From here on out, I’m Mr. Joe Stevens, and your name is Bambi.”

  “Bambi? Seriously?” I whine. Hurley shrugs. “Isn’t that a bit . . . bimboish?”

  “Just follow my lead and say as little as possible.”

  I know Hurley well enough to figure out he isn’t going to tell me anything more. After some fifteen minutes of silent driving, I broach a slightly different topic. “Have you heard from Richmond with regard to the security footage?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. As luck would have it, the store had cameras installed both inside and out. We now have a better image of the guy who was with Liesel. It’s a bit grainy,
but Richmond is e-mailing it to Quantico to see if they can enhance it for us. There was one distinguishing characteristic we discovered that we didn’t know before, because he was wearing a hat in the ER. Our guy has a round bald spot on the back of his head.”

  Hurley’s phone rings and he uses the hands-free system in his truck to answer it. “Detective Hurley.”

  “Hey, it’s Bob.” Since the call is on speaker, I can hear it, too. “We got that photo back from the Fibbies. They do remarkable work. I’m sending it to your phone.”

  “Great. That will help, once we get to the doc’s place.”

  “They’re also running the photo through some facial-recognition software they have to see if it matches any known criminals they have in their database. It’s a long shot, but you never know, we might get lucky. In the meantime, I’m looking over the files from the original police reports again. Maybe something there will pop out.”

  “Let me know if you find anything, and I’ll let you know how things go with the doc once we’re done.” He disconnects the call and his phone dings to indicate a new message. He picks it up from the console and hands it to me. I open the message from Richmond and there is the face of the man who dumped Liesel in the ER. He is pale-skinned but dark-haired, with a sad excuse for a mustache. The picture is a partial profile, and a small section of the bald spot near his crown is visible. His nose has a distinctive bump in it, just below the bridge, and his eyes look dark, though it’s hard to tell from the picture exactly what color they are.

  I hold the phone up so Hurley can glance at the picture without taking his eyes too far off the road.

  “Sketchy-looking fellow” is all he says.

  We arrive at our destination a few minutes later, a single-level home on a country lot that is about an acre in size. It is dark, and there are several pine and fir trees growing on the property that allow very little moonlight to get in. The house, however, is lit up with warm light that emanates from the windows and a fixture on the wide front porch. It looks welcoming enough.