Dead of Winter

CHAPTER 30

The Mustang rounded the curve in the road, and Louis saw the sign: LOON LAKE-12 MILES. It had been a pain in the ass, but it was over. That quack Serbo had given him a full release to go back to work. The rational part of him knew it was too soon. He’d seen cops who came back only a few days after a traumatic incident and almost always they cracked. But he had to get back to work, if for nothing else than to get back some of his dignity.

Fragments of the sessions with Serbo floated back as he drove.

It has been the first time he had told a stranger about his real mother Lila. It had been the first time in years he had said the name of the father who had deserted him, Jordan Kincaid, and peeled back the thin layer of anger that covered his heart.

It was also the first time he had told anyone he was afraid. He admitted to Serbo that his confidence was broken, his nerves shredded. And, at the end, he had talked of Gibralter.

It hadn’t been easy. How could you tell a shrink you thought your boss was out to get you without sounding like a paranoid? How could you explain to a stranger you were involved with your boss’s wife without looking like a complete fuckup? And how could you admit you didn’t know how to fight back?

Serbo had offered only one observation. “Maybe you should deal with your chief as you do this man Lacey,” he had said. “You have studied Lacey’s life, looking for his weakness. Maybe you need to do the same with your chief to level the playing field.”

Louis shook his head. If Gibralter had any human frailty, he sure the hell wasn’t going to let anyone see it.

Louis approached the station, slowing. The lot was filled with strange sedans and a shiny blue chopper sat like a giant insect on the courthouse lawn next door. Mark Steele had taken over, just as he had promised.

Louis was forced to park near the supermarket and walk back to the station. Inside, it was crowded with strange men who with their bland faces and black wingtips looked like J.C. Penney catalog clones. One corner desk had been taken over as a command post, stocked with extra phones and heaped with files. The place even smelled different. No fire in the hearth, just the stink of cigarettes.

Louis noticed Dale’s radio was not playing. There was also no sign of Dale. He went over to the dispatch desk.

“Hey, Flo.”

She looked up and smiled. “Oh, Louis, I’m so glad you’re back,” she said jumping up. “Let me get you a coffee.”

“No, don’t bother. Listen, where’s Dale?”

A frown creased on her face. “Out on patrol. Chief put him with Jess.”

Louis shook his head. Dale had no business out on the street.

“Things are not the same here, Louis,” Florence said softly.

“I know,” he said. “Is the chief in?”

“Yes, but he hasn’t come out of his office in the last hour. Want me to buzz him?”

Louis nodded. Florence paged Gibralter on his intercom and his voice came back telling her to have Louis wait. Louis’s eyes drifted up to the wall and he saw that Ollie’s portrait had been hung next to Pryce’s and Lovejoy’s, all with black bands. Four days had passed since Ollie’s death. Jesse had told him that there had been no sign of Lacey.

He felt a rush of cold air at his back and turned to see Steele come in. Steele went straight to the command desk, pulling off his black overcoat and handing it off to an aide. Rubbing his hands, he went to the coffeepot and poured a cup, using Jesse’s mug.

Florence looked at Louis and frowned. With a shake of her head she turned back to the dispatch radio.

“Kincaid.”

Louis looked at Gibralter standing at his office door. Gibralter’s eyes focused briefly on Steele then back on Louis. He waved him to the office. Louis hesitated as Zoe flashed into his head, followed by a disturbing image of her with Gibralter. Was that always going to be there now, every time he looked at the man?

Louis went in, closing the door behind him. Gibralter was sitting at his desk. His uniform shirt was crisp but there were circles under his eyes and a shadow of whiskers on his jaw. The office had a slightly fetid smell, an odor of cigarettes and body musk. Louis spotted a Styrofoam takeout container in the trash and a bottle of Aramis on the credenza.

“You have something from the doc?” Gibralter said.

Louis held Gibralter’s eyes for a moment looking for a clue in them about Zoe. Gibralter had trusted Jesse with his secret and had no reason to suspect that Louis now knew. There was nothing new in Gibralter’s eyes, Louis finally decided.

Louis pulled the papers from his shirt pocket and handed them to Gibralter.

“It says you need to continue to see him,” Gibralter said. “You have other problems I need to know about, Kincaid?”

“The future visits are routine. I can come back to work.”

Gibralter nodded stiffly. He fished in a drawer and pulled out a paper. “Now I have something for you,” he said, holding it out.

Louis came forward and took it. The Loon Lake city seal jumped out at him. It was a letter of reprimand. Conduct unbecoming a police officer, improper and inappropriate radio traffic, profanity and blatant unprofessionalism…

“I don’t deserve this,” Louis said.

Gibralter swung the chair around to the credenza and switched on a tape recorder. The tape crackled with static and then Louis’s voice filled the office.

“Jesus…Jesus…Coward! He’s a fucking coward!”

“Kincaid, pull yourself together!”

“Turn it off,” Louis said sharply.

Gibralter turned it off and the room went silent. He held out a pen. “Sign it.”

Louis didn’t move.

“Sign it or I’ll add insubordination.”

Louis stared at the letter in his hand. Quit, Kincaid, just quit and walk away. You don’t need this, you don’t need this damn job and you don’t need her.

Gibralter started to reach for the paper.

Ollie’s face came back to Louis in that moment. Ollie’s face splattered with blood and his pleading eyes. He grabbed the pen from Gibralter, scribbled his name and thrust the paper back at Gibralter, throwing the pen on the desk.

“Can I go now?” he asked.

“No. I think you need a few days in the office.”

“I have a release for full duty.”

“I don’t care what you have. I decide when a man is fit for duty.” Gibralter reached down below his desk for an empty box. He tossed it across the desk and Louis caught it against his thighs.

“Take down the Christmas decorations.”

Louis could see the network of tiny red veins around the cold blue irises. The man was cracking, just like the rest of them.

Suddenly, something snapped inside Louis. The room shifted, everything shifted. The impotent rage burning inside him was mutating into a cold anger. He realized in that instant he had made a decision. He wouldn’t quit and leave Jesse, Dale, or any other cop, at Lacey’s hands.

But what could he do? Gibralter wasn’t going to let him work the case. And now Steele was in control of the search, the arrest, of everything.

Then he knew. He would help Steele. He would do whatever he could to help Steele catch Lacey. He didn’t want to be caught in a damn ego war but Lacey had to be stopped. If it meant taking sides against Gibralter, he would do it. He would do what he could and then get the hell out.

“Am I dismissed?” Louis asked tightly.

“Get out of here.”

Louis left the office and went to his desk, tossing the box in a corner and sinking into the chair. Taking a stand against Gibralter was a dangerous move. He had to play it carefully. Very carefully.

Level the playing field. But how could he find something to neutralize Gibralter?

He glanced at the phone. He grabbed the phone book and dialed the Argus, asking for Doug Delp.

“Delp here.”

“Delp, this is Kincaid. Can I buy you lunch?”

“Sure. Dot’s?”

“No.” Louis paused. “Jo-Jo’s”

“That shithole out on 29?”

“Yeah. Ten minutes, okay?”

He spotted Delp in the gloom of Jo-Jo’s, sitting at the end of the bar. There was no one else in the place except for a drunk slumped over the table in a corner booth. The bartender eyed Louis’s uniform as Louis slid onto a stool next to Delp.

“Nice place,” Delp said, stirring his coffee.

Louis ignored him, motioning to the bartender to bring another cup.

“Where you been?” Delp asked. “I called the station.”

“Therapy.”

“Oh, yeah. How’s it going?”

“Fine.” The bartender set a mug of coffee in front of Louis. Louis stirred in three sugars and took a sip. He grimaced and pushed it away.

“Okay, what’s with the secrecy?” Delp asked. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”

“I need a favor,” Louis said.

Delp studied him for a moment. “What?”

“Do you know anyone at a newspaper in Chicago?”

“Got a buddy at the Tribune. Why?”

“Somebody who’s been around a while, maybe on the police beat?”

Delp leaned forward. “This is about Gibralter, isn’t it?”

Louis tightened. He sure hoped he could trust this asshole. “I want to know why he left Chicago.”

“Why?”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Where you going with this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Not yet, you mean.”

Louis hesitated. “All right. Not yet.”

Delp shook his head. “Promises, promises.”

“Look, Delp, can you help me or not?”

Delp shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Louis started to get off the stool. “I have to get back.”

“Hey, wait,” Delp said. “I got something for you.”

“What?”

Delp hoisted a beat-up leather briefcase onto the bar and pulled out a manila envelope. “The photos you asked for, the leftovers from the raid. I found some extras in the morgue.”

Louis slid back onto the stool. He opened the envelope and sorted through the black-and-white photographs. It was just standard newspaper stuff — shots of the cabin, the backyard, a sliding glass door, a broken window. There was a photo that showed an indentation in the snow that looked like a snow angel splashed with black that he recognized finally as the spot where Johnny Lacey fell after being shot.

“Nothing here,” Louis said, setting them down.

“Try these,” Delp said, holding out a second envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Postmortems.”

“I already saw them,”

Delp slipped out a stack of photos. “Not all of them. I found some stuff that didn’t get printed the first time.”

“How do you know?”

“Photographers use a hole punch to notch the edge of the negatives they want to print,” Delp said. “These weren’t notched.”

Louis sifted slowly through the photos. Many were just different angles of those he had already seen but he paused at one. It was a close-up of a hand, life-size but still small and delicate, obviously Angela’s hand. It was palm down, fingers splayed, and across the back between the first set of knuckles and the wrist, was a half-circle bruise. He knew he had not seen this picture in the case file. Why had it been left out?

“That one’s weird, isn’t it?” Delp said, sipping his coffee. “What you think that bruise is?”

Louis said nothing.

“Looks like maybe someone stepped on her hand with a boot heel,” Delp said. “Or maybe it’s a horseshoe?”

Louis started to stack the photographs but Delp laid a hand on them. “Something else,” Delp said. “Did you notice the initials on the raid photographs?”

Louis picked up a print and turned it over. He hadn’t bothered to look at the initials the first time. “A.R. Who’s A.R.?” he asked.

“Arnie Rogers.”

“So what?”

“So don’t you think it’s strange that Arnie took the crime-scene photos?”

“Common in small towns.”

Delp shook his head. “I checked other files. Gibralter always had his men do the pics, before the raid and after.”

Louis was silent, remembering that Ollie had been the photographer at the Lovejoy scene.

“And get this,” Delp said. “I found out a local doc by the name of Boggs did the autopsies. Don’t you think that’s strange, too?”

Louis slipped the photographs into the envelope, not wanting Delp to know that he did think it was strange. Why hadn’t Gibralter called in Ralph Drexler, the country medical examiner?

Picking up the envelope, Louis slid off the stool and tossed a five on the bar. “Listen, Delp,” he said, “Don’t call me at the station.”

“What’s the matter? Things getting rough there?”

“Just don’t call.”

“What if I get something on Gibralter?”

“I’ll call you. When?”

Delp shrugged. “Can’t say, man. Haven’t talked to my bud in Chicago in a long time. He might have forgotten all about me.”

Louis resisted the urge to say something smart. He started for the door.

“Hey, Kincaid,” Delp called, and nodded toward the envelope in Louis’s hand. “A thank-you would be nice, you know.”

“You’ll get your thanks,” Louis said.

“Promises, promises,” Delp mumbled.