Dead of Winter

CHAPTER 22

No doubt about it. He was drunk.

On the drive home from Dollar Bay he had stopped off at the grocery to pick up a six-pack of Heineken. It had taken only two hours to go through that and then he had moved on to the Christian Brothers.

Now he was sprawled on the sofa, staring into the dying fire in the hearth. Something in his fogged brain was telling him to go outside and get more logs but he was too tired to move.

With a grunt, he turned and reached for the bottle on the floor. He brought it up to his eyes, squinting. Empty. He stood and stumbled to the kitchen, jerking open the cupboard. Empty. No booze, no food, no woman, and soon, probably no job. What a shitty week.

Going back to the sofa, he grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, jerked open the door and headed to the lake. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe to just cut a hole in the ice and jump in. Hell, they wouldn’t find him until spring unless, of course, he floated up under some kid’s ice skate like Lovejoy had. That would be just his luck.

He was halfway to the shoreline when it occurred to him that he could be a walking target for Duane Lacey’s rifle. At least he was too drunk to feel the bullet.

Leaning heavily against a tree he stared blankly out at the dark lake. He had to stop this. He had to stop drinking so much. An image flashed into his head, his mother’s sunken face, leathery against the white pillow of her deathbed. For the first time he was beginning to understand how people could drink themselves to death. He ran a shaky hand over his face. No, he was just, what? Stressed out? Under pressure? Shit, all cops drank too much, didn’t they? He wasn’t like her. He wasn’t going to die like she did, liver eaten away, alone and scared.

He looked up. The moon was a sliver scythe in the black sky. Louis squinted across the lake, trying to make out the specks of lights, wondering which one was Zoe’s cabin, thinking about Jay Gatsby. Gatsby, the stupid putz who stood around mooning out at Daisy’s dock.

“Kincaid,” he said, “how in the hell could you be so stupid about so much?”

He heard a noise and spun around, trying to focus on the cabin. He saw a car and wondered why he hadn’t heard it pull up. He let out a breath when he saw Jesse heading to the cabin’s porch. Fucking traitor.

Jesse knocked, waited, knocked again. He started back toward his truck.

“Hey!” Louis called.

Jesse turned and Louis stepped out of the shadows. Jesse trudged out to him. “What you doing out here?” he asked.

“Looking for UFOs,” Louis said.

Jesse looked up, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his parka. Louis watched him from the corner of his eye. He was wearing a turtleneck and jeans, and his hair blown down across his forehead. Out of uniform, he looked like a teenager.

“What are you doing here?” Louis said.

Jesse shrugged. “I just wanted to know how it went in Dollar Bay.”

Louis eyed him coldly. “You can read the report.”

Jesse’s sigh came out in a long white vapor. “Look, Louis, I came here…Shit, I guess I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“The chief was kind of rough on you the other day.”

“Aw gee, thanks for your support,” Louis muttered, starting back to the cabin.

Jesse hesitated then followed. “Maybe I should have said something, Louis, but it’s hard with the chief, the way he is about things. I mean, it’s a small department and I — ”

“You left me hanging out there by my balls.”

“There was nothing I could do!”

“Bullshit.”

“What?” Jesse asked, throwing his arms up. “What was I supposed to do?”

Louis faced him. “You could’ve told me about the raid. You could have told me about those kids. You could’ve told me about their fucking father!”

“I didn’t know he was out!”

“You should have! It was your job to know.”

Jesse spun away suddenly and started toward his Bronco. Then he stopped and turned, looking down at the snow. For several seconds he said nothing. “All right,” he said finally. “I should have known. I should have double-checked the fucking record.”

Louis shook his head in disgust. “Get out of here. I’m done listening to your bullshit excuses.”

Louis staggered past him to the porch. Jesse hesitated then caught up, grabbing Louis’s arm. Louis jerked away and pushed open the door. Inside, he kicked off his wet shoes and went to the sofa, dropping down onto it. He heard the door close and knew Jesse had followed him.

“Look,” Jesse said slowly, “I know I should have said something in your defense but if I had opened my mouth Gibralter would have canned me. And I couldn’t take it if I couldn’t be a cop anymore.”

Louis looked up at him. “What makes you think you ever were one?”

Jesse stared at him. “You know, I’ve had about enough of your shit,” he said.

“That makes two of us.”

“Come on, man! Cut me some slack!”

“You fucked up!”

“So did you!” Jesse yelled.

Louis closed his eyes. It was quiet. He heard a squeak of the floorboards and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus on the bottle in front of his nose. His eyes went up to Jesse’s face above him.

He took the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from Jesse, unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He grimaced and handed it back to Jesse. Jesse retreated three feet to perch cautiously on the arm of a chair. In the long silence, Louis felt the whiskey burn a path down his throat to his empty stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. He opened his eyes to see Jesse holding out the bottle again. He waved it off.

“Why didn’t you quit?” Jesse asked quietly.

Louis shook his head. “Can’t…”

“Why?”

“He’s still out there.”

They fell silent. Luis shivered and reached down to pull the afghan over his chest.

“You got any wood?” Jesse asked, glancing at the cold fireplace.

Louis shook his head. Jesse waited for Louis to say something. Finally, he rose. “I gotta go,” he said. “Julie’s waiting up.”

Louis looked up at him, frowning. “Huh?”

“Julie. She was the one who told me to come over here, said she was tired of listening to me bitch about it.”

Louis squinted at Jesse. “Any more of that shit left?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle.

Jesse handed him the Jack Daniel’s. Louis took a drink and handed it back. Jesse took a swig.

“Whiskey’ll kill you,” Louis mumbled.

“Better than that cough syrup you drink,” Jesse said, nodding toward the empty Christian Brothers on the floor.

Louis pulled the afghan up to his chin and shivered. For a long time the cabin was quiet.

“Julie…” Louis said. “She like you being a cop?”

When Jesse didn’t answer, Louis looked over at him. He was still perched on the arm of the chair, picking at his fingers.

“I guess,” Jesse said. “I met her giving her a ticket. The first time we did it she made me leave my uniform shirt on. Said it made her feel like she was doing something criminal.”

Louis laughed softly.

“Why’d you ask about that?” Jesse said.

“No reason.”

“Shit, everything you said or do has a reason attached. You seeing someone?”

Louis shook his head. Jesse took another drink and held out the bottle. Louis waved it away.

“Can you talk to her?” Louis asked. “About the job, I mean.”

Jesse paused then nodded. “Yeah, most of the time.”

They fell silent again. Louis knew the booze had pushed him past his limit and that he was dangerously close to getting sloppy. But as much as he needed someone to talk to, he wasn’t about to let Jesse see him that way. As much as he needed to talk about Zoe he wasn’t ready to tell Jesse. He closed his eyes, drifting, drifting down…to sleep, he hoped, to blessed sleep.

He heard a sound, the door opening and closing. Jesse had left. But after several minutes, there was a thud. Louis opened his eyes to see Jesse kneeling to dump an armload of logs onto the hearth. He watched as Jesse stuffed newspapers into it and slowly prodded a fire to life.

The warmth curled slowly toward him and Louis extended his legs toward it. “Thanks,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to let you lay here in the dark and freeze to death and you’re too shit-faced to go outside and get some wood,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, why make Lacey’s job any easier than it is?” Louis said.

Jesse stared at him for a moment then laughed. Louis joined in. Finally, they stopped.

“You’re one sick mother,” Louis said.

“You’re the one who said it,” Jesse said, falling into the chair and uncapping the Jack Daniel’s. Louis watched him as he drank.

“You scared?” Louis asked softly.

Jesse didn’t look at him. He nodded then took another drink.

Louis rubbed a hand roughly over his face. “I found out some good stuff up in Dollar Bay,” he said.

Jesse looked relieved to talk business. “Like what?”

“He’s got survival skills, learned them as a lurp.”

“A what?”

“Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol,” Louis slurred. “They dropped the suckers from choppers in ‘Nam and they had to find their own way out of the jungle.”

“What, like some kind of test?”

“No, in combat,” Louis said, struggling through the booze haze. “Phillip said they were nuts and — ”

“Who’s Phillip?”

“My foster father. He said — ”

“You were a foster kid?” Jesse asked.

Louis yawned. “Bjork said that Lacey was a natural — ”

“Who’s Bjork?”

“Sheriff in Dollar Bay,” Louis murmured. “Great hair, little gold earrings…”

Jesse stood up, palms up. “I don’t want to hear this. You can tell me tomorrow.”

Louis tried to push himself up from the sofa. Jesse put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay there. And get some sleep. You’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

Louis nodded, closing his eyes.

Jesse reached over and pulled the afghan up over Louis. “See you in the morning, partner.”

CHAPTER 23

Louis pulled the page out of the typewriter, his report on Dollar Bay finished. As he read it over for typos, he realized that his hand was shaking.

He let out a slow breath. That was it, no more heavy drinking like last night. He couldn’t afford to be off his game right now. He started to reach for his coffee but instead went to the water cooler and gulped down his third Dixie Cup of water.

He was crumpling the cup when Gibralter came in, unzipping his parka. Gibralter spotted Louis, gave him a curt nod and headed toward his office.

“Chief?” Dale called out.

Gibralter turned.

Dale hurried forward, holding out several pink slips. “Mr. Steele called again, twice this morning.”

Gibralter took the slips, crumpled them and tossed the wad to the trash. It missed and bounced to the floor. “Jesse here yet?” he asked Dale.

“In the locker room, sir.”

“Tell him I want to see him.” Gibralter looked at Louis. “You, too, Kincaid.” He disappeared into his office.

Louis poured a fresh cup of coffee. His eyes went to the pink paper on the floor and he picked it up. He unfolded it and stared at Mark Steele’s name, wondering what the calls were about. Was Steele trying to offer help in the investigation? Louis tossed the papers in the trash. Any help would be welcome at this point, even from an asshole like Steele. Picking up his coffee he went to the mailbox, pulling out the single paper from his slot. It was Lovejoy’s phone record. It must have come back while he had been in Dollar Bay.

Going to his desk, he put on his glasses. Most of the numbers appeared to be local but two stood out. The first was 578-7770, which Lovejoy had called every day at nearly the same time, 6:35 A.M. The last day he called it was on Sunday, December 1. The other number was 578-3482, a call made at 10:30 P.M. on November 30.

“Dale,” Louis called out, “Could you run these for me?”

Dale came over to peer at the two numbers Louis had underlined. “Don’t have to,” he said. “The first one’s the weather. The other’s the chief’s house.”

“The chief?” Louis said, frowning. “Lovejoy was retired. Why would he call the chief?”

Dale shrugged. “They were kinda friendly.”

He had forgotten; Jesse had told him the chief and Lovejoy went fishing together occasionally. But any cop knew that the last person a dead man talked to was important. Why hadn’t Gibralter mentioned it?

Louis sat back in his chair. At least the call to the weather made sense. It was more evidence that Lovejoy fished in the morning, not at night. But it still didn’t make sense that Lacey had risked killing him in broad daylight.

Louis sat forward suddenly. Unless…Lovejoy was not put in the water at the same time he was killed.

Louis slipped off his glasses, his mind working on this new possibility. Had Lacey shot Lovejoy at night, like Pryce, then returned the next afternoon to stuff him in the ice hole? That fit Lacey’s M.O. at least. But why did he feel he had to conceal Lovejoy when he had left Pryce’s body in the open?

His eyes went to the Dollar Bay report sitting on his desk, and something Millie Cronk had said nagged at his brain. He got out his notebook and flipped to the notes of their conversation. She had said that Lacey came home after his first visit to Loon Lake, that he seemed upset about something. He had told her that “everything is fucked up.”

What had he meant? Had something gone wrong for Lacey? Had he planned a third hit that didn’t come off? Is that why he hadn’t struck again in the last four weeks?

“Hey, you’re alive.”

Louis turned to see Jesse coming from the locker room. “Barely,” Louis said, closing his notebook. “Chief wants to see us.”

“Before briefing? He say why?”

“Not a clue.” Louis picked up the Dollar Bay report as he rose. Several other men were heading toward the briefing room and eyed Louis as they passed. Jesse saw it.

“Let it go,” he said to Louis quietly.

Jesse knocked on the chief’s door and Gibralter called for them to come in. He was standing at the window, back to the door, and turned.

“Anything new on Lacey?” Gibralter asked Jesse.

“We found the wife,” Jesse said. “She’s in Texas, some berg near Austin. Been there for the last three years. Cops down there questioned her but she said she hasn’t heard from Lacey since ’77.”

“That it?”

“We also found out Lacey checked into a motel down near Rose City on November 30 but the search turned up nothing.”

“And since then?” Gibralter asked.

“No sign of him.”

“He’s trained in wilderness survival skills,” Louis ventured.

“How do you know?” Gibralter asked.

Louis quickly summarized Lacey’s military record and the other information from Dollar Bay. “It’s in my report,” he said, holding it out.

Gibralter took it, scanned it and tossed it on the desk behind him. He went to the wall map, studying it. “Lacey isn’t from here. He doesn’t know this area,” he said. “If he’s holed up somewhere he has help.”

Louis’s eyes went to the county map on the wall behind Gibralter, to the large, amoeba-like blob of green that was the Huron National Forest. Lacey was in there somewhere and they would never find him. To them, it was a foreign and hostile place; to Lacey it was shelter.

“What about his son?” Louis asked. “He’s lived here and Lacey visited him at Red Oak. The kid wrote to him, too.”

“Then that’s where you go next, the kid. I want you two up there today to question him.”

Louis’s eyes flitted to the map again. Even if Cole Lacey did know something, nine small-town police officers didn’t have a prayer of finding Lacey without help.

“Chief, I have a question,” Louis said. “Are you going to request assistance from the state?”

Gibralter gazed at him through the cigarette smoke haze. “We’ll handle this ourselves,” he said. “That’s what good departments do, they take care of their own problems. They don’t need outsiders.”

Louis could feel a faint pounding in his head, the lingering effect of the booze and the beginning of a headache. He resisted the urge to rub his temples and the urge to say what he was thinking, that this was no time for a territorial pissing match between Gibralter and this guy Steele. Unconsciously, he let a sigh slip.

“Do you have a problem with what I just said?” Gibralter asked.

“No, sir.”

Gibralter’s icy stare seemed to drill into his head, hitting the pounding place in his brain.

“There’s something else on your mind, Kincaid. What is it?”

Louis hesitated. “Lovejoy’s phone records came back.”

“And?”

“They show he made a call to your home at ten-thirty p.m. the night before he was killed.”

“So?”

“So,” Louis said carefully, “I was curious about why you didn’t mention it.”

Louis heard Jesse draw in a slow breath.

“I didn’t mention it because I never got the call,” Gibralter said.

Louis hesitated, knowing he was about to get his head chopped off. Shit, at least it would stop the headache. “Someone got the call,” he said. “It was four minutes long.”

Gibralter’s eyes didn’t waver. “I have a wife, Kincaid. Maybe they chatted for a few minutes.”

Louis lowered his eyes.

“So, if we are done discussing Lacey,” Gibralter said, “I have something I want to take up with you, Kincaid.”

Louis tightened. Now what?

Gibralter went to the credenza and took one of the swords off the wall. “This is a samurai sword,” he said. “Do you know why I have it here, Kincaid?”

Louis felt Jesse shift nervously at his side. “No, sir,” Louis said.

“I keep it to remind myself of what honor is. We spoke of honor once, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Louis said.

Gibralter’s hand traveled over the ornate hilt. “The samurai code was a simple one,” he said. “The business of a samurai consisted of reflecting on his station in life, in discharging loyal service to his master and in deepening the trust and fidelity of his fellow warriors.”

Gibralter looked at Louis. “You think maybe a samurai might have something to teach a cop?”

“I’m sure he would,” Louis said. Where the hell was this going?

Gibralter carefully set the sword back in its holder. “I spoke to a man named Bob Roberts today. Name ring a bell?”

The hairs on Louis’s arms came alive and he was suddenly aware of his heartbeat. It was moving up, mixing with the pounding in his head. “Can we discuss this in private?” he said.

“No. I think this is something Officer Harrison should hear.”

“Sir, this — ”

“We are under siege, Kincaid,” Gibralter said. “Any man on this force can take a bullet for you at any time. I think they should know how you plan to repay them.”

Suddenly, Louis knew what was coming, and there was no way he was going to be able to explain it.

“Officer Kincaid spent a couple of interesting days in Mississippi federal court last year, didn’t you?” Gibralter said.

“Yes,” Louis said.

“Officer Kincaid testified against another police officer by the name of Lawrence Cutter. What were the charges, Officer Kincaid?”

“Civil rights violations,” Louis said.

“What’d he do, Officer Kincaid? Call you a jigaboo?” Gibralter asked.

Louis went rigid. “Larry Cutter — ”

“Shut the fuck up when I’m talking to you!” Gibralter shouted.

Louis felt a tremor rush through his body, a signal of the rage building inside. He didn’t want Jesse to hear this without knowing the truth. He turned to him.

“Jess, the man tried to kill me. He tried to hang — ”

“I don’t care what he did!” Gibralter interrupted. “You turned on your own and cops don’t turn on their own!”

“Sir, I think — ” Jesse said quietly.

“No, you don’t!” Gibralter snapped.

Louis glared at Gibralter. “Are you firing me?”

Gibralter shook his head. “I have no intention of making it easy for you. If you leave here it will be because you quit or because your stupidity gets you killed.”

“Jesus, Chief,” Jesse whispered hoarsely.

“That’s enough.”

For a long moment it was quiet in the office. From outside came the murmur of the other morning-shift men, punctuated by the ring of the telephone. Finally, Gibralter turned away from them.

“Dismissed,” he said.