Night Sins

by Tami Hoag

  Megan felt she didn't belong. Mitch wanted to spend time with his daughter, had asked Megan along only as a courtesy. She kicked herself for accepting, and she kicked herself again for letting old memories sneak up on her. She was a grown woman and she had better things to do with her time than feel sorry for herself because she had a family that defined the word dysfunctional.

  “Hey, O'Malley? You okay?”

  “What?” She glanced back at Mitch, embarrassed to see concern in his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, giving her attention over to the paper-wrapped burger in front of her. The smell of fried onions wafted up to tempt her. “I was just . . . thinking about the case. Um . . . I should have gone over the background checks the guys ran on the hospital staff today. You know, maybe I'll pass on the parade.”

  “Cut yourself some slack,” Mitch said. “I realize the clock's ticking, but you can't work twenty-four hours a day. You go at it that hard, you burn up physically and mentally, then you're no good to anyone.”

  Megan shrugged. “I've put in only ten hours today. I can do a few more and still have a couple to spare.” She gave him her best poker face. “I think better at night. There aren't so many distractions.”

  Mitch frowned but said nothing.

  Jessie took a gulp of her milk. “Daddy, do you think—um—in the parade that there'll be those guys dressed up like pieces of cheese like last time? They were funny.”

  “Probably, sweetheart,” he murmured, his eyes still on Megan.

  Jessie launched into a detailed account of last year's torchlight parade. And Megan, glad for the distraction from Mitch's probing, concentrated on the little girl, knowing that by the time the story ended, the meal would be over and she would be able to escape. Mitch deserved some time alone with his daughter, and Megan wanted to retreat from this unfamiliar ground to the one thing she knew she could do well—her work.

  8:19 P.M. 20°

  Megan drove the deserted streets of Deer Lake, cursing the car's heater. It seemed a ridiculous time of year for a parade, and yet that seemed to be where everyone was. Megan wondered how many of the brass players in the high school bands would get their lips frozen to the mouthpieces of their horns.

  Jessie's tale of last year's parade brought a smile to her lips. She could picture the floats she'd seen in the garage at the old fire hall. She could envision the clowns and the skiing wedges of cheddar from the BuckLand cheese factory slipping and falling in the street, tangling up with one another, the crowds on the sidewalks doubled over laughing.

  How much laughing would there be tonight? Tonight, when a missing child was on everyone's mind, when every marcher wore a yellow ribbon and every float bore a banner that said BRING JOSH HOME.

  Megan wished with all her heart they could bring Josh home. They had so little to go on. The hotline tips hadn't produced anything but dead ends and false hopes. Megan's mind kept going in the direction of Olie Swain. He was the closest thing they had to a suspect. Mitch had to think so, too, or he wouldn't have risked taking a look inside Olie's van.

  She wished again he would have confided in her about the van. And about himself. She could have picked up the phone and uncovered his past with a couple of calls. If she had wanted, she could have called TV 7 and gotten a copy of Paige Price's hatchet job on him. She could have reached out to someone on the force in Miami or tracked down the story through the archives of the Miami Herald. But she would do none of those things. It had to come from Mitch himself, and the reason for that scared the hell out of her. Deep inside, where logic meant nothing, she wanted him to trust her.

  You're too stupid for words, O'Malley.

  He wanted to take her to bed, not give her his heart.

  She wanted to go with him. Her third day on the job and she wanted to have sex with the chief of police.

  You're too stupid to live, O'Malley.

  Lust. Chemistry. Animal attraction. The heightened emotions of a volatile situation. Physical needs too long ignored. The excuses bounced through her head, all of them true, none of them the truth. She wouldn't look for the heart of truth. She was too afraid of what she would find. A need that had never been fulfilled. A longing that had been with her forever. Foolish dreams.

  There was no place in her life for a relationship, especially one with Mitch Holt with all the complications that would bring. She couldn't believe she was even toying with the idea. Fantasies of love and family and dark-haired little children had always been relegated to the deepest, darkest, most lonely hours of the night, where they could be dismissed as dreams when daylight and reality dawned. It confounded her that they would surface now, when she had neither the time nor the energy to deal with them. Her focus had to be on the case.

  With the single-minded determination that had gotten her through her career, she turned her mind in that direction and pointed the car toward the hockey rink. She sat in the parking lot for a long while, staring at Olie's battered van, what-iffing, something anxious stirring inside her. A hunch, just forming, just out of reach, teased her like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. And in the back of her mind she could almost hear Josh's voice reading the line from his notebook: Kids tease Olie but that's mean. He can't help how he looks.

  Inside the arena music sang out over the speaker system—Mariah Carey's “Hero.” The seats were empty and dark. Lights shone down on the ice, where a single skater was going through a routine, moving and jumping in harmony with the flowing, lovely song. Megan made her way to the team bench, where she took a ringside seat at the red line.

  The skater was a young woman, blond, petite but athletic in black leggings, a purple skating skirt, and a loose-fitting ivory sweater. She concentrated on the music, her footwork and arm movements. Every move was held out perfectly until it flowed into the next. Her jumps were graceful, powerful, with landings so smooth they seemed to defy physics. The music swelled and soared, then softened. The skater went into a final layback spin, looking like a ballerina on a music box.

  Megan applauded, drawing the young woman's attention her way for the first time. The skater smiled and waved to acknowledge her tribute, then skated over with her hands on her hips.

  “That was great!” Megan said.

  She managed a shrug as she worked to even out her breathing. “It still needs work, but thanks. Could you hand me that bottle of water?”

  Megan picked a plastic bottle of mineral water up from the player's bench and handed it over. “I'm Megan O'Malley with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

  “Ciji Swensen.” She pulled a towel off the gate and blotted her lips and forehead, her dark blue eyes on Megan. “I read about you in the paper. Are you here about the kidnapping? I feel so bad for Dr. Garrison.”

  “Do you know Josh?”

  “Sure. I know just about everybody in town who can lace on a pair of skates. I'm an instructor with the Figure Skating Club.”

  “Working overtime tonight?”

  “Practice. The club does a little show every year for Snowdaze. This is one of my pieces. I knew everyone would be at the parade tonight, so I thought I'd take advantage of having the ice all to myself. It's a special number—for Josh, you know? The club voted to give the profits from the show to the volunteer center.”

  “That's very generous.”

  “Yeah, well, we had to do something. It makes me sick to think some pervert picked Josh up right outside this rink. For all I know, I could have been standing right here when it happened.”

  “You were here that night?”

  Ciji nodded as she took another swig of water. “I had a class at seven.”

  A male voice called out from the darkness at the far end of the rink. “You want that music again, Ciji?”

  “No, thanks, Olie,” she called back. “I'm taking a break.”

  Megan stared hard, just making out the shape of Olie Swain's head and shoulders as he moved in the shadows. “Did you see Olie that night?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She shrugged. “Olie's
always around here somewhere.”

  “He resurfaced the ice before your class?”

  She nodded. “He did the ice right after the Squirts finished practice.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Five-fifteen, five-thirty.” Ciji's delicate brows pulled together in a look of concern. “Look, I know there are people in town who are ready to blame Olie, but he's not a bad person. He's just odd. I mean, he's really kind of sweet, you know? I've never seen him behave inappropriately around the kids.”

  “Did you see him later that night?”

  “Sure. He did the ice again before seniors hockey at eight.”

  Which left hours in which he could have done anything, including abduct Josh Kirkwood.

  Ciji set her water on the ledge along the boards and wound the towel around her hands. “You don't really think he did it, do you?”

  “We're just trying to establish a chronology of the events Wednesday night,” Megan said smoothly, neither confirming nor denying. “It's important that we know who was where when. You were here until what time?”

  “Eight-fifteen. I always stay until the senior guys warm up.” She smiled a little. “They like to flirt. They're a bunch of sweeties.”

  “And you didn't see anything or anyone unusual?”

  The smile disappeared. “No. Like I told the officer who questioned me yesterday—I wish I could say otherwise. I wish I could be a hero for Josh, but I just didn't see anything.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Megan said. “I'll let you get back to work. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Sure.” Ciji tossed her towel over the gate and gracefully skated backward toward center ice. “I hope you can make it to the show Sunday!”

  “I'll try,” Megan called, already moving out of the box and toward the end of the arena.

  Olie saw her coming. That lady cop who looked right at him. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anybody. He knew what people were saying—that his van was like the one the cops were looking for. Well, Mitch Holt had already looked inside his van and hadn't found anything. So they could all just go hang themselves, those people who stared at him sideways and said things about him behind his back. He didn't care what they thought, anyway. All he wanted was to be left alone.

  He grabbed his plastic liter bottle of Coke and his book on chaos theories and started toward the door to the locker rooms.

  “Mr. Swain? Can I have a word with you?”

  “Talked to the chief,” he grumbled. “Nothing else to say.”

  Watch your manners, Leslie! Don't be rude, Leslie. Never turn your back to me while I'm talking, Leslie.

  He winced at the strident voice in his head.

  “This will take only a minute.”

  If he went to his office, she would follow him. He didn't want that. He didn't like anyone going in there. He couldn't breathe when other people came into his space.

  “I just have a couple of questions for you,” Megan said, catching up with him.

  She could smell him five feet away. The rank onion smell of poor hygiene and overactive sweat glands wafted from him like cologne gone bad. He was wearing the same sweater and jacket he'd had on the first night. He stood facing her, a textbook clutched against his chest, his glass eye staring, his good eye darting all around her.

  “Mr. Swain, I know you did the ice here the night Josh disappeared. Right after his team finished practice, right?”

  He nodded.

  “And again just before the seniors team played?”

  His head jerked again.

  “Could you tell me where you were during the time in between?”

  “Around.” He flinched at his own belligerence.

  Don't take that tone with me, Leslie. You'll wish you hadn't, Mr. Smartmouth. I'll make you wish you hadn't.

  The lady cop was staring at him. He wanted to shove her away. He wanted to hit her in the face to make her stop staring, and hit her again while he screamed at her to leave him alone. But he couldn't do those things, and knowing he couldn't made him feel puny and weak and impotent. A runt. A freak. A mistake of nature. His hand tightened around the Coke bottle and he scowled, frowning so hard, his small mouth bent into the shape of a horseshoe.

  “Can anyone back you up on that?” Megan asked. Her gaze flicked down to Olie's right hand covered by the same Ragg wool half-gloves. As he squeezed the bottle until it made a crackling sound, the fingerlets pulled back from his knuckles, revealing a glimpse of thin blue lines traced on each finger. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

  “I didn't do anything,” Olie said angrily.

  “I didn't say you did, Mr. Swain,” Megan countered calmly. “But you know, that van of yours looks a lot like the one our witness described. If you weren't driving it, who was? You have a buddy you might have loaned it to? You can tell me. You won't be in any trouble.”

  “No,” he snapped, rocking back and forth on the sides of his ratty Nikes, squeezing the Coke bottle rhythmically.

  “And you say you were here that whole evening, but you don't have anyone who can back you up on that?”

  “I didn't do anything!” Olie shouted. “Just leave me alone!” He hurled the Coke bottle into the trash barrel beside the door, then turned and ran down the dark hall.

  “I don't know if I'll be able to do that, Mr. Swain,” Megan murmured. Holding her breath, she leaned down into the trash barrel and came up holding the Coke bottle gingerly by the throat.

  8:43 P.M. 20°

  The torchlight parade included the usual Snowdaze traditions—King Frost and the Queen of the Snows with thermal underwear beneath her gown, the Happy Hookers ice fisherman drill team twirling their rods like parade rifles, the schnapps-soaked Shriners weaving precariously from curb to curb on their mini-snowmobiles. There were horse-drawn sleighs and dog sleds and a herd of Rotarians dressed as abominable snowmen. But as Mitch had suspected, the atmosphere was anything but festive. The spectators that lined the streets were all too conscious of the banners and posters of Josh and of the television cameras that had come to capture the small town's despair on videotape. When the contingent from the volunteer center silently marched past with candles burning, he could hear people around him crying.

  Jessie clung to Mitch throughout, growing quieter and quieter until she put her head on his shoulder and asked to go home.

  Mitch kissed the tip of her nose and hugged her. “Sure, honey. We'll go see if Grandma will make us some hot chocolate to warm up our noses and toesies. Right?”

  The giggle he had hoped for didn't materialize. She merely nodded and tightened her stranglehold around his neck.

  “Mitch, can we have a word from you?”

  Mitch wheeled on Paige Price, then herded her away from the crowd. “Jesus Christ, Paige, do you never quit? Do you have any limits at all?”

  Paige gave him the wounded look, though knowing he didn't buy it. If Garcia got any good shots of her, they could always use them later on, splice them into another piece. The cameraman backpedaled with her, tape running. “This is hardly out of bounds, Chief Holt.”

  “No, I guess this doesn't even begin to compare with giving away key evidence. My, you've had a busy day, Ms. Price.” His voice sizzled with sarcasm. From the corner of his eye, he could see people looking at them, their attention drifting away from Debbie Dutton's Little Sprites baton twirlers going by in snowsuits, twirling to the tinny sound of “Winter Wonderland” blasting out of a boom box.

  “I fail to see how the information on the notes could compromise the case,” Paige said.

  “I'll enlighten you tomorrow, when we get a hundred and fifty laser-printed notes on twenty-pound bond in the mail claiming responsibility for the kidnapping. Maybe you and your cameraman here could go out on a hundred and fifty calls to check out the crackpots instead of spending time with the search and rescue squads or the few remaining officers who will be left to hunt for real clues.”

  Jessie lifted her head, her lower lip tr
embling. “Daddy, don't be ornery!” she whimpered, tears glittering in her eyes.

  “It's okay, honey,” Mitch whispered. “I'm not mad at you; I'm mad at this lady.” He tucked Jessie's head against his shoulder and backed Paige toward the renovated brick front of the Fine Line stationery store. “Who's your source, Paige?”

  “You know I can't divulge that information.”

  “Oh, that's perfect,” he sneered. “Your sources are sacrosanct, but confidential police information is fair game? There's something wrong with this picture, Paige.”

  Giving her no chance to refute the statement, he jerked to the right and nearly hit Jessie's head against the lens of the video camera. He swatted the thing aside and leaned into the face of the cameraman. “Get that fucking thing out of my face or you'll be wearing it for a hat!”

  Jessie began to cry. Mitch tried to comfort her and glare at Paige simultaneously. “I find out who leaked that information, I'll kick his ass into the middle of next week,” he said through clenched teeth. “And then I'll get mean.”

  Paige said nothing, feigning calm when everything inside her was trembling at the fury she saw in Mitch Holt's face. As Holt stalked away with his daughter in his arms, Garcia cradled his camera like a baby and leaned toward her conspiratorially.

  “Shit, that guy has a temper. Remind me never to resist arrest around here.”

  9:05 P.M. 19°

  Joy Strauss clucked her disapproval as she hung Jessie's coat in the hall closet. “This is just what I was afraid of,” she muttered just loud enough for Mitch to hear.

  He glared at the back of his mother-in-law's head, in no mood for Joy's pecking. She was a slim, graceful woman who would have been attractive if not for the sour bend to her mouth. Her brown hair was threaded with silver and worn in a shoulder-length style that was ageless. She dressed in social matron wear and wore her pessimism like a strand of accent pearls.

  “This kidnapping has just terrified her,” she continued. She shook her head as she closed the closet door. “It's a wonder she's been able to sleep. Maniacs roaming loose, snatching children off the curbs.”