Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  He sat in an orange booth at Placy’s Restaurant, sipping a glass of milk and hoping to calm the fire in his stomach. Perry Como drifted over the speakers, singing a Christmas tune. They all faded together after a while, Como sounding the same as Crosby or Burl Ives.

  Kempf checked his watch again. The reporter was running late. The room felt like the devil’s sauna. He slid the puffy parka off his shoulders and set it next to him in the booth. A few more minutes and he was walking out of here.

  Five minutes later, a skinny college kid approached the table. An army surplus coat hung on his frame and a white scarf adorned his neck.

  “Detective Kempf?”

  Kempf nodded.

  “Jeremy Woods. From the Observer.”

  “Little late.”

  “Sorry. Weather’s nasty.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Woods took out a steno notebook and flipped it open. Then he pulled out a pencil and licked the tip of it. That was one thing Kempf never understood. Did licking the pencil make it write better?

  “I’m sorry I blew you off the other day. Shit started hitting the fan,” Kempf said.

  “No problem. So what do you want to tell me?”

  The waitress stopped over and Woods ordered a cocoa.

  “You ask me whatever you want and I’ll tell you. As long as you put a few things in the article for me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No, you will. I’ll give you a detailed description of the killer. And where I think he’s hiding.”

  “That’s great, but don’t the police usually leave out a lot of details so other people don’t confess to the crime?”

  “This is Brampton. I don’t think there’s too many wannabe serial killers around here. Besides, people need to know what’s happening. I think this guy’s on the Steadman Estate and I want to shake it out like a blanket, but Chief Ramsey won’t let me.”

  “Let’s start then.”

  Kempf weaved past the news vans parked outside Town Hall and almost ran over Cindy Bryant from Channel Two News. He parked in the rear lot and made his way to the foyer. Ramsey stood behind a podium, giving that Ken doll hair a last smoothing over. The mayor stood next to him in a blue suit, and next to the mayor was Henry Starch, the county sheriff.

  Kempf took his place on Ramsey’s left and the chief nodded at him. “Glad you could make it, Tank.”

  The reporters filed in, and the foyer lit up like a night game at Yankee stadium from all the cameras. Flashes popped and correspondents stepped forward, scribbling into notebooks and practicing looks of concentration. It lasted fifteen minutes. Ramsey mentioned getting two sheriff’s cars to patrol in town and assured the good people of Brampton that there was no cause for alarm. Kempf almost swallowed his tongue when he heard that. The deckhands on the Titanic probably told doomed passengers the same thing.

  Ramsey thanked everyone for coming and as he stepped from the podium, he motioned for Kempf to follow him.

  “What did you think?” Ramsey said.

  “I was a little surprised when you told people not to be alarmed.”

  “We don’t want a panic.”

  “You don’t think there’s already one? I noticed you didn’t mention the Steadman Estate.”

  An incredulous look crossed his face. “Why would I?”

  “That’s where he was the day I saw him.”

  “We’re not positive he’s there,” Ramsey said.

  “We need to get on that property and tear the place up.”

  Ramsey exhaled, as if he were dealing with an impatient child. “Wealthy voters don’t want the police bothering them. Comprende?”

  Kempf stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

  “I’m thinking of running for county sheriff next year. The owner of the Steadman place could be a big contributor to my campaign. They don’t want us showing up there and drawing attention to the place. People gawk at the place as it is.”

  “You stupid son of a bitch.”

  “Tank?”

  “You would let a murder suspect go loose just so someone can put money in your war chest?”

  “Don’t overreact.” He held his hands up, palms out, as if to placate Kempf. “We’ve got extra patrols everywhere. The town’s not that big. We’ll find him.”

  “I’m going to talk to Cassie Winter again. See if she saw anything.”

  “Go alone. We don’t need a mess of cops showing up there.”

  I was going alone, you schmuck, Kempf thought.

  “Maybe I’ll just give her a call and let her know you’re coming,” Ramsey said.

  “You amaze me.”

  “Just be nice to her. And no more at the Steadman place after this, okay? We’ll catch him.”

  Kempf threw his hands up in disgust and walked away.

  It was a long walk home.

  To make a bad day worse, Chris’s dad never showed up to get him from practice. He had expected to see the Trans-Am pull up with the radio loud enough to hear through closed windows, but Dad never showed. Snow and ice had nipped at him the entire way home, but he made it without turning into a human Eskimo Pie.

  After taking off his coat and boots, he poured milk into a stainless steel pan and set it on the stove. The gas burner came to life with a poof! He took a packet of cocoa mix from the cupboard and dumped it in the pan. He needed something to warm his bones after the walk home, and cocoa always fit the bill.

  A moment later, the Trans-Am rolled up the driveway. He didn’t know whether his father had stopped at practice after Chris left, or if he got held up running errands. Either way, Chris would be able to tell by his father’s entrance whether or not he talked to MacGregor. Like the month of March, he could enter as a lion or a lamb.

  He stirred up his cocoa and the milk bubbled in the pan. Then he poured it in a mug and sat down at the table. Dad came in, snowflakes covering his shoulders.

  “How was practice?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sorry I missed you. Our sales meeting went over. Didn’t mind walking, did you?”

  “Nah.”

  Chris sipped his drink. He looked at the blue flower on the mug instead of his dad.

  “Something the matter, Chris?”

  MacGregor had threatened to call. The warning echoed in Chris’s head, and if he didn’t tell his father about the fight with Munch, MacGregor would.

  “Practice wasn’t so good.”

  “Why not?”

  “I got into it with Munch again,” Chris said.

  “Chris—”

  “He was being an idiot. He hit me with a locker door and fouled me hard.”

  “Haven’t learned to ignore him then.”

  He was waiting for that golden nugget of parental wisdom: it takes a bigger man to walk away.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “What did Coach say?”

  “I’m suspended for a week.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, barely audible. “I can’t deal with this right now. You’re going to flush this all down the crapper if you don’t straighten up. You’re lucky he didn’t kick you off the team.”

  “I don’t want to be on the team anymore.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re mad.”

  “I’m thinking of asking for a tutor and working on my grades,” Chris said.

  “That’s great, but can’t you do that and play basketball?”

  “The other kids think I’m stupid.”

  “Well, you’re not.”

  “Then why did I fail two classes? The only reason I eventually passed was that MacGregor talked my teachers into letting me do extra credit.”

  “He’s looking out for you,” Dad said.

  “Tell him not to.”

  “It’s up to you, I guess.”

  He walked away, leaving Chris with a lukewarm cup of cocoa.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cassie’s phone rang. She was in the middle of brewing a pot of coffee to sip throughout the da
y. It had snowed again, and a chill settled into the big house. She picked up the phone on the kitchen wall.

  “Mrs. Winter?”

  The voice on the end was as smooth as melted chocolate.

  “This is?”

  “This is Police Chief Samuel Ramsey. How are you?”

  Ronnie. It had to be about Ronnie. Did he egg someone’s house or spray-paint his initials on a car hood? Or maybe that other boy from the school beat Ronnie bloody.

  “Mrs. Winter?”

  “Is this regarding my son?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She closed her eyes, intent on getting a mental image of Samuel Ramsey. A man sitting in an office chair, leaning back, held the phone to his ear. He swiveled left, right, and back again. Then he reached down, scratched his crotch, and did a most peculiar thing: he sniffed his fingers. Amazing the things people did when they thought no one was watching. She took him to be a bit of an ogre, however clean and polished.

  “Why are you calling?”

  “One of my detectives paid you a visit. George Kempf. Remember him?”

  “It was two or three days ago. I think I would,” Cassie said.

  “Right-o. Do you mind if he comes up again to ask a few questions? It’s regarding the murders here in our fair town.”

  “I figured as much,” Cassie said.

  “Detective Kempf is bent on proving the killer is hiding out on your property. It’s crazy, but that’s what he thinks. He’s harmless, a bit of a bumbler. I like to make him think he’s working hard.”

  “He won’t stay long? And no questioning my son.”

  “Of course. And I do apologize for the intrusion.”

  She tapped her red-lacquered nails on the table. “Not a big deal,” she said.

  “Great. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Winter.”

  “I look forward to seeing Detective Kempf,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  Kempf plodded ahead at fifteen miles an hour, the snow pouring down from the white-gray sky. The lake effect machine, as the weathermen liked to call it, showed no signs of letting up. A band of lake effect sat on Brampton and pounded with both fists.

  Before he left the station, Ramsey had briefed him on the conversation with Cassie Winter. Kempf was to be polite and tactful. Under no circumstances was he to ask questions about Cassie’s son. Ramsey was getting his tit in a wringer over this woman, and it was because she had money. Ramsey made it clear this was to be Kempf’s last visit to the estate. Kempf supposed angry rich ladies didn’t fork over money for political campaigns, hence Ramsey’s lecture.

  Cassie greeted him at the mansion’s doors. She wore her hair pulled back and a fluffy turtleneck clung nicely to her. Her smile was warm and despite his misgivings, Kempf smiled back. She took him by the arm and led him into the foyer. Inside a tune from The Nutcracker came from unseen speakers.

  “Do you like the music? I’m trying to get into the Christmas spirit,” she said.

  “I’m more of a doo-wop fan. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk?” Kempf asked.

  “Certainly.”

  Kempf stomped the snow off his boots and followed her until they ended up in an enormous room.

  “We can sit here in the great room,” Cassie said.

  A mahogany bar lined one wall, and behind it bottles of liquor sparkled like jewels. A dartboard, pool table, and Foosball table adorned one corner, and the great room even had a chrome jukebox. Kempf bet you could find Frankie Valli or Dion on there without much trouble.

  “Can I offer you something?” she said.

  “A glass of milk.”

  She moved behind the bar and Kempf followed, taking a seat on one of the bar stools. She bent over and took out a pint of milk from a minifridge behind the bar. Taking out a beer mug, she poured the milk and slid the mug over to Kempf.

  “Some room,” Kempf said.

  “The Steadmans were fond of entertaining. I guess at one point they had parties every weekend. The Rockefellers were frequent guests.”

  “Were you related to the Winter of WINCO Industries?”

  “He was my husband.”

  So that’s where the money came from, he thought.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on since.”

  He took a sip of milk. On the way up here, he had considered asking some softball questions and leaving after ten minutes. It was what Ramsey wanted him to do. But it stuck in his gut that the killer was on the estate somewhere and he could do nothing. Easy questions wouldn’t stop people from dying. He decided to open up with the big guns.

  “You know there’s been another murder.”

  “Do you think I’m involved?” She looked amused.

  “No, I don’t. But I do believe the killer may be hiding on your property. How many acres is it?”

  “Around eight hundred.”

  “That’s a lot of room to hide. Not to mention the buildings,” Kempf said.

  “We went over this before, Detective. I saw nothing. If you’re worried about my safety, my assistant, John, keeps a loaded forty-five on him. He’s licensed.”

  Her grip on the edge of the bar tightened. The veins in her hands wriggled.

  “These were vicious killings. I don’t think there’s big-city homicide cops who see stuff like this. People are panicked, and panicked people do crazy things. Buy guns when they don’t know a shotgun from a bazooka, shoot at things in their yard if they hear a noise. You can see my side of it.”

  She crossed her arms and pouted. “There is no murderer on my property. Has anyone else seen this person? Or is it just you, Detective?”

  Kempf rubbed his forehead, just above the eyebrows, trying to massage away tension. “Just me. But you should be careful anyway.”

  “I’m tired. Are you almost finished?”

  He decided to ease up a little. The last thing he wanted was her calling Ramsey to complain.

  “I’m sorry, I just want to catch this person. Do you think I could talk to your assistant, John?”

  She pulled a phone from under the bar and dialed a number.

  “John? Detective Kempf is here and he’d like to ask you a few questions. I’ll send him up.” She hung up. “It’s the houses on the left as you come in. The biggest one is his.”

  He finished his milk and got up to leave.

  “Call me if you need anything.” He took out a business card from his pocket and dropped it on the bar.

  Kempf walked up the steps to John’s house. A porch ran its entire length and on it was a stack of firewood. The storm door rattled in the wind, as did the wreath affixed to the door underneath. It smelled like fresh pine as he approached the door. Kempf knocked and a moment later John answered.

  He extended a hand and they shook.

  “Come on in.”

  He led Kempf to a kitchen painted in soft yellows and greens. “Sit down, please.”

  Kempf pulled out a wrought-iron chair and plunked himself down.

  “Get you something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  John took a percolator off the stove and poured himself a mug of steaming coffee. He sat down across from Kempf. “So what brings you here, Detective?”

  Kempf unzipped his parka. “Murder. I have reason to believe the perpetrator of two very vicious killings might be hiding on the estate.”

  “Hmm.” He regarded Kempf with a thoughtful gaze over the coffee mug.

  “Lots of buildings to hide in. And I saw the guy. He watched me from the woods while I was doing some investigating. Have you seen anyone around the estate?”

  He gave Kempf a hard look, as if he was contemplating what to do next. To tell or not to tell perhaps.

  “I could talk to you, but not here,” John said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I’ll explain later. You free in a couple of hours? Say one o’clock?�
�

  “I could be.”

  “Can you meet me at Rudy’s Place?” He got up and set his mug in the sink.

  “That’s twenty miles from here. In Ashton.”

  “That’s the only way I’ll talk. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  “I guess it’s Rudy’s then,” Kempf said. “But this better be good.”

  Kempf took a corner booth at Rudy’s, the red vinyl squealing underneath as he slid into the seat. The waitress brought him an iced tea and he slid out of the parka. Merle Haggard drifted over the speakers and a lone drinker in a cowboy hat and flannel shirt sat sipping pale beer from a mug. The place smelled of fried fish and beer. Kempf guessed there were two or three fistfights a week at Rudy’s Place.

  John came in five minutes later. The guy at the bar looked up at him, then went back to nursing his beer.

  “You come here often?” Kempf asked.

  “Trying to pick me up?”

  “You know what I mean. This place isn’t exactly around the corner.”

  “It’ll do for our talk. The houses on the estate got some big ears,” John said.

  “Have you seen anyone or anything that might help me find this prick?”

  “No. But you’re right about him being on the estate.”

  You’d better not be jerking my chain, Kempf thought. He didn’t drive all the way out to some honky-tonk to have his dick yanked.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Let’s start with Cassie.”

  John told him how she murdered Ronald Winter after finding out about his mistress and her subsequent inheritance of his billion-dollar fortune. She told the cops he never came home one night, and the investigating officers bought it. They left her alone and Ronald Winter was assumed missing.

  “What about the kid? She got pretty ticked when I started asking about him,” Kempf said.

  “Ronnie’s her pride and joy. She wouldn’t let anyone harm that child. Would probably kill anyone that tried.”

  “So she’s trying to protect him from talking to the big bad police. Probably trying to cover her own ass. So is she the one doing this?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”