Frozen Stiff

by Patrick Logan

  “Really?”

  Floyd hesitated, which gave Chase a moment to think.

  He used to live here, with his sister, and yet we slept in a motel? In that motel?

  “Yep.”

  Something wasn’t adding up.

  “Does she still live here? Martinez’s sister, I mean.”

  Floyd’s eyes darted to the rearview, and Chase was surprised to see that they were moist.

  “No, they d-don’t. Martinez’s sister d-d-d-d-died.”

  Chase looked away, suddenly feeling ashamed for being so intrusive.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, staring at the snow again.

  “Th-th-that’s okay. It happened a f-few years ago. His s-s-sister was about the s-s-s-same age as those g-girls, I think. She d-d-died after M-M-Martinez left.”

  Chase turned back again.

  “Really?”

  That would explain why he was so hard with the truck driver, with the investigation in general.

  “Y-yes. It was very s-s-sad.”

  “I bet. I don’t mean to be insensitive, Floyd, but can you tell me how she died?”

  Floyd’s eyes returned to the road and his voice went flat.

  “She was murdered,” he said, without stuttering.

  For the second time since Floyd had picked her up, Chase’s jaw went slack.

  Murdered?

  “What? How? When?”

  Floyd took the off-ramp toward the airport, and turned up the circular drive. He hurried passed the rows of parked cars, and stopped in front of the sign emblazoned with the Delta triangle.

  “You n-n-need to hurry, Agent A-A-A-dams.”

  Chase, brow furrowed, wished that she had elected to start this conversation as soon as they had gotten into the car. But regardless of her curiosity, Floyd was right: if she was going to make her flight, she was going to have to haul ass.

  At least I don’t have any checked baggage, she thought glumly, realizing that she still hadn’t received the luggage that had been lost during the first leg of her journey.

  Floyd got out and hurried around to her door, but Chase opened it for herself this time.

  Then she hugged the man.

  The act was surprising—to both of them, really—and Floyd nearly stumbled backward.

  “Thanks,” she whispered in his ear. “And I have your number, I’ll give you a call. Keep in touch, Floyd.”

  Then she left, hurrying past the dumbfounded man and into the bustling airport.

  ~

  “Nope, still don’t got it.”

  Chase scowled and checked her watch.

  Seven minutes until the gates closed.

  “Are you messing with me?” she demanded. “You told me it would be here—” Chase had to count the days in her head. “—four days ago!”

  The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow.

  “I told you that we were doing our best to get your stuff here from Atlanta, but I have no control over that.”

  As frustration built inside her, Chase finally realized why there was a thick pane of glass separating the lost luggage booth from civilians.

  Talk about her luggage made her feel dirty. Chase had picked up a fresh pair of undergarments from the local Winners, but she was still wearing the same jeans and shirt that she had been sporting when she had left New York nearly a week ago. Washed twice, but still…

  “My gun—”

  “I’m aware that your service revolved is in the missing luggage, Mrs. Adams. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”

  Yeah, and I’m going to abundantly rearrange your face, she thought with unexpected hostility.

  “I’m leaving Alaska. I don’t want it sent here.”

  The man’s eyebrow rose even higher.

  “If it’s en-route, there’s nothing I—”

  “I’m going to Boston. Can you send it to Boston?”

  The man shrugged, then reached over and retrieved a fresh form. He put it on the counter, sliding it, along with a chewed pen, over to her side of the glass.

  “If you want your luggage shipped somewhere else, you’re going to have to fill out another form.”

  Chase grimaced and checked her watch again.

  Three minutes until the gate closes.

  “Can’t you just copy the information from my other sheet?”

  The man grabbed an apple from some hidden place beneath his desk and took a ridiculously large bite. A tiny spritz of apple juice sprayed the glass.

  “Nope. Only the claimant can fill out the form.”

  Chase ground her teeth and then set about scribbling as quickly as she could.

  And then she started to run.

  “Hold it! Hold it! I’m coming! Don’t let the plane leave! For fuck’s sake, don’t let it leave!”

  PART II - TRYING TO SWIM

  ~

  ONE WEEK AGO

  CHAPTER 25

  “DID YOU ENJOY THE CHILDREN’S Museum?” Peter Dortmeir asked his son. When the boy didn’t answer, he squeezed his hand.

  “Ryder? Did you like the museum?”

  The boy looked up at him with his pale blue eyes.

  “I loved it,” he said with a grin.

  Peter laughed and he tousled his son’s hair.

  “Good. Now… what’s next? Lunch? You hungry?”

  “Starving!”

  “Alright, let’s go grab something to eat then.”

  Peter lifted his eyes and peered along the boardwalk. It was bright and relatively warm for a March afternoon and he was forced to squint to see clearly. It was only his second time in downtown Boston, and his first at the Children’s Museum, which was situated on Fort Point Channel. In the distance, he saw a small footbridge, and just beyond that he saw a yellow sign that read: GROWLING CRAB.

  I could do crab… I could definitely do crab.

  “Your mom ever feed you crab, Ryder?”

  Ryder grunted.

  “Now way. Gross. They’re like underwater spiders.”

  Peter chuckled.

  They were a little like underwater spiders. If spiders were absolutely succulent and delicious, which he was fairly certain they were not.

  “I’m sure they have hot dogs or KD, too, if that’s what you want.”

  “Awesome!”

  With that, Ryder pulled away from him, his tiny hand slipping from Peter’s palm. He darted ahead, weaving his way through several large, decorative boulders that had been placed on the boardwalk.

  Peter watched him go, a smile still on his face.

  How long has it been since Joelle let me have him for the entire weekend without supervision?

  He wasn’t sure, but it had to be three, maybe even four months. And Peter missed just holding his hand, watching the five-year-old boy run amok.

  Ryder pulled himself onto one of the smaller boulders with relative ease, then leapt to another, higher stone.

  Peter picked up the pace.

  “Hey Ryder, why don’t you get down from there?”

  Ryder laughed and looked toward the tallest of the three stones, one that was at least eight feet up and three and a half feet higher than the one on which he presently stood.

  When he reached for a groove in this taller rock, Peter hurried to catch up to him.

  “Hey! Ryder! Get down from there, okay?”

  Ryder grunted, and his mitt slipped on the snow-slickened surface. His boots were still rooted on the other stone, but he had moved onto his toes in order to stretch even further.

  “Ryder!” Peter shouted, breaking into a jog. His heart started to race when he saw one of the boy’s boots slip, his mitten stretching enough to reveal a thin patch of pale skin on his wrist.

  Peter wrapped his arm around Ryder’s knees just as his grip failed.

  “Jesus, Ryder! What are you thinking?” he said in a huff as he lowered him to the ground.

  A gap-toothed smile remained on his son’s face.

  “I’m good at climbing. Mommy says so.”

 
Peter rolled his eyes.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not mommy, alright? You need to be more careful.”

  Ryder shrugged, and then immediately made his way toward the railing overlooking the channel.

  “Shit,” Peter grumbled as he struggled to keep up. This was turning out to be more work than he had thought.

  Ryder went straight up to the railing, and hopped up onto the four-inch lip, tucking his boots between the bars as he leaned over the edge.

  Peter grabbed the hood of his jacket and held tight.

  “What’d I say about being more careful, Ryd—”

  “What’s that?”

  Peter followed his son’s hand.

  A series of stairs led down from the boardwalk to a small platform that was cordoned off by bars. It was a landing spot for a boat, but there was no vessel moored to it. Instead, Ryder was pointing to the snow-dusted top which was covered in the smashed remains of mussels, crabs, and other random crustaceans.

  Peter’s smile returned; he was happy that his son was interested in these things. Despite all of the mistakes he had made over the course of the boy’s short life, he had at least imbued him with a sense of curiosity.

  “You hear those birds overhead? Well, they swoop down, grab a crab or mussel, and then fly way up high. Then they drop it, and the shell—”

  Ryder shrugged free of Peter’s grip on his jacket.

  “No, not that. Mommy already told me all about that. I meant that.”

  Peter’s smile became a frown.

  Mother told you, huh? Well who the hell do you think told her? Hmm?

  “Where?”

  “Right… there.”

  Peter leaned over his son’s back and saw what Ryder had been blocking with his body.

  And when he did, his eyes bulged from his head and he stumbled backward.

  “R—R—Ryder, get away from the railing!” Peter cried.

  “Why, what is it?”

  Peter grabbed his son’s jacket again, and this time gave it a sharp tug.

  “Hey!”

  “Don’t look, Ryder… whatever you do, don’t look!”

  CHAPTER 26

  Chase half expected the man in the special luggage booth at Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport to somehow be at Logan International as well, still chomping away on his damn apple, telling her that, Whoops, sorry, your luggage was once again lost. You’re going to have to fill out another form, my favorite government employee, you.

  But instead, she was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a young woman, pretty, with short brown hair, who, after seeing her badge, promptly handed over the gun that Chase had been forced to check at the other end.

  “Thank you,” she said, and the woman nodded and offered her a smile.

  Stepping away from the booth—worried that there was still a chance that something would go wrong before she could make a clean break—Chase pulled out her phone and dialed Martinez’s number.

  “Agent Martinez.”

  “Hey Chris, it’s Chase—just landed at Logan. Is there…” she let her sentence trail off, unsure of how to broach the subject without sounding like a desperate teenager.

  So you left me, and um, then you called? So, like, I’m here… what should I do next?

  “I’m on the boardwalk—Fort Point Channel just outside the Children’s Museum. There’ll be a car waiting for you outside. Come as soon as you can.”

  Chase nodded as she made her way into the main airport area.

  “Any—” she began, but then realized that Martinez had already hung up.

  Chase shrugged and slid the phone back into her pocket. Her eyes scanned the busy airport, skipping over the hundreds of people that milled about dressed in navy suits with dark overcoats, women in long trench coats, kids wrapped in jackets that weren’t that much unlike the one that she sported, the one that Martinez had so graciously given her back in Girdwood.

  She was looking for Floyd, Chase realized. Maybe not him specifically, but someone like him.

  Her eyes eventually fell on an elderly man leaning against a wall beside a Starbucks. In one hand, he was holding a large cup emblazoned with red snowflakes, while the other gripped a sideways iPad.

  The word ADAMS was written in bold type across the screen.

  She hurried over to him.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Agent Chase Adams.”

  The man nodded briskly, but said nothing. It took Chase a moment to realize that he wanted to see her ID.

  She took it out and showed it to him. The man scrutinized her image, then her face, then the image again for what felt like a full minute. The entire time, Chase found herself thinking that, no, this man was nothing like Floyd. She also had the feeling that it wasn’t just their difference in age, either.

  Eventually, the man handed it back to her.

  “My name’s Paul,” he said curtly. “Follow me, please.”

  Paul… just Paul. I have to show my ID, and he gives me a single syllable.

  Despite the man’s age—he was pushing seventy, Chase figured—he moved quickly. Paul walked so fast, in fact, that Chase had to break into a small jog just to keep up.

  They twisted their way through the crowd, and eventually made it out into the cold.

  Chase had been right: it was warmer in Boston, uncharacteristically warm, in fact. With the sun shining high above her, she realized how strange time zones were. Coming from Alaska, she felt as if she had been transported to a different world. Nine hours earlier, from dreary snow and night, to maybe mid-fifties, sun high in the sky. The difference was so stark that she opened her red parka all the way.

  She checked her phone, which had automatically changed to the current time zone, and realized that while she had left Alaska close to ten in the evening, it wasn’t quite nine in the morning in Boston.

  And yet she felt surprisingly good. She wanted to get out of her clothes and into something clean, but she didn’t feel tired, at least not the way she had felt when she had first arrived in Anchorage. Sleeping on the plane had seemed to have done the trick.

  “Are we—”

  “Over here,” Paul snapped. He led them to a battered, teal-colored sedan that was parked in a no parking zone. An airport security guard was hovering nearby, and Chase felt a knot form in her stomach.

  Great, Paul’s going to get his ride towed, and we’re going to be stuck taking an Uber to the crime scene.

  But instead, the security guard offered a subtle nod to Paul, which he returned.

  Unlike Floyd, Paul didn’t open her door for her, nor did she expect him to. Chase got into the front seat, and immediately crinkled her nose at the smell of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the upholstered seats.

  The car squeaked when Paul got into the driver’s side. To Chase’s surprise, it started with a few metallic protests when he turned the key, and then they were off.

  ~

  “How do you know Agent Chris Martinez?” Chase asked as they drove.

  “Hmm?” Paul replied, without turning. His window was open a few inches, and as much as he tried to blow the cigarette smoke out the window, it kept being pushed back into the car.

  Chase detested the smell, but couldn’t bring herself to tell this strange man to put the cigarette out. As an ex-smoker, and even when she was still smoking, she could never stand the stench of second-hand smoke. As ironic as it sounded, it made her feel ill.

  “How do you know Martinez?” she asked again, swallowing her nausea.

  Paul took an extended drag from his cigarette, and still avoided turning to face her.

  “He worked a case in Boston about five years ago.”

  Chase waited for the man to elaborate, but he never did.

  “And so you are… a driver? Like an—”

  Finally, he turned, his small eyes boring into her.

  “I’m just a friend, someone who owes Chris a favor is all.”

  Chase made a face.

  “Alright, alright. Just tr
ying to pass the time.”

  Paul brought the cigarette to his lips and turned back to the road.

  Chase stared at him, the deep lines on his cheeks, the network of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

  No, this definitely isn’t Floyd.

  As they continued in silence, she found her mind wandering to Brent Pine, to the dead girls, to the visions she had had when she had brushed up against Yolanda’s corpse.

  It dawned on Chase that if it hadn’t been for her, for her comment about a van, or her interaction with Brent at the bar when she arrived after Chief Downs and Agent Martinez were in the back trying to get the proprietor to hand over the security tapes, that they never would have caught him.

  Chase felt something then, something that if she didn’t know herself as she did, she might have construed as pride.

  But Chase knew better.

  It wasn’t pride.

  It was sadness. Deep sadness.

  It took us less than a week to find Yolanda and Francine’s killer, but thirty years later and Georgina’s still missing.

  Her arms started to itch, and she tried to think of something else. She pulled the phone from her pocket and checked for any messages.

  There weren’t any; none from Agent Stitts or from Brad.

  “This is the channel,” Paul said in a gruff voice. He tossed his cigarette out the window and then immediately lit another.

  Chase turned her gaze to the window.

  There were a half-dozen police cars blocking their way, and Paul was forced to come to a stop. An officer approached Paul’s window, and he rolled it down a few more inches, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke into the morning air.

  “You can’t come through here,” the police officer said, shaking his head.

  “I’m—”

  Agent Martinez suddenly hurried down the cobble road toward them.

  “They’re with me,” he hollered. “Let them through.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Chase stared at the reflection of the bright sun in the still water below. For a fleeting moment, she almost caught sight of her own image, but before shocking herself, she averted her eyes and looked around instead.

  She had been on the boardwalk before, and remembered walking by the very location that the body had been dumped. She remembered because of the tea.