Hard Freeze

by Dan Simmons

  "Timmy?" called a quavery voice from the second floor. "Is everything all right? Timmy?"

  Kurtz looked at the blubbering, weeping mass of stumbling flesh ascending the stairs ahead of him. Timmy?

  The second-floor landing opened onto a lighted parlor where an old man sat in a wheelchair. The man was bald and liver-spotted, his wasted legs were covered by a lap robe, and he was holding some sort of blue steel .32-caliber revolver.

  "Timmy?" quavered the old man. He squinted at them through pop-bottle-thick lenses set in old-fashioned black frames.

  Kurtz kept Timmy's mass between him and the muzzle of the .32.

  "I'm sorry, Howard," Timmy gasped. "He surprised me. He… ahhhhh!" The last syllable erupted as Kurtz bent Timmy's finger back beyond design tolerances.

  "Dr. Conway," said Kurtz, "we need to talk."

  The old man thumbed the hammer back. "You're police?"

  Kurtz thought that question was too stupid to dignify with an answer. Timmy was trying to lean far forward to reduce the pain in his arm and finger, so Kurtz had to knee him in his fat buttocks to get him upright in shield position again.

  "You're from him?" said the old man, voice shaking almost as much as the gun's muzzle.

  "Yes," said Kurtz. "James B. Hansen."

  As if these were the magic words, Dr. Howard K. Conway squeezed the trigger of the .32 once, twice, three, four times. The reports sounded loud and flat in the wood-floored room. Suddenly the air smelled of cordite. The dentist stared at the pistol as if it had fired of its own volition.

  "Aww, shit," Timmy said in a disappointed voice and pitched forward, his forehead hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow sound.

  Kurtz moved fast, diving around Timmy, rolling once, and coming up fast to knock the pistol from Conway's hand before the crippled dentist could empty chambers five and six. He grabbed the old man by his flannel shirt-front and lifted him out of the chair, shaking him twice to make sure there were no more weapons hidden under the slipping lap robe.

  French doors opened onto a narrow balcony at the far end of the room. Booting the wheelchair aside, Kurtz carried the struggling scarecrow across the room, kicked those doors open, and dangled the old man over the icy iron railing. Dr. Conway's glasses went flying into the night.

  "Don't… don't… don't… don't." The dentist's mantra had lost its quaver.

  "Tell me about Hansen."

  "What… I don't know any… good Christ, don't. Please don't!"

  With one hand, Kurtz had literally tossed the old man backward and caught him by the shirtfront. Flannel ripped.

  Dr. Howard K. Conway's dentures had come loose and were clacking around in his mouth. If the old piece of shit hadn't been a silent accomplice to a dozen or more children's murders, Joe Kurtz might have felt a little bit sorry for him. Maybe.

  "My hands are cold," whispered Kurtz. "I might miss my grip next time." He shoved the dentist back over the railing.

  "Anything… anything! I have money. I have lots of money!"

  "James B. Hansen."

  Conway nodded wildly.

  "Other names," hissed Kurtz. "Records. Files."

  "In my study. In the safe."

  "Combination."

  "Left thirty-two, right nineteen, left eleven, right forty-six. Please let me go. No! Not over the drop!"

  Kurtz slammed the old man's bony and presumably unfeeling ass down hard on the railing. "Why didn't you tell someone, Conway? All these years. All those dead women and kids. Why didn't you tell someone?"

  "He would have killed me." The old man's breath smelled of ether.

  "Yeah," said Kurtz and had to stifle the immediate urge to throw the old man down onto the concrete terrace fifteen feet below. First the files.

  "What will I do now?" Dr. Conway was sobbing, hiccuping. "Where will I go?"

  "You can go to—" began Kurtz and saw the old man's rheumy eyes focus wildly, hopefully, on something low behind Kurtz.

  He grabbed the dentist by his shirtfront and swung him around just as Timmy, who had left a bloody trail across the parquet floor, fired the last two bullets from the pistol he'd retrieved.

  Conway's body was too thin and hollow to stop a .32 slug, but the first bullet missed and the second hit Conway in the center of his forehead. Kurtz ducked, but the spray of blood and brain matter was all from the entry wound; the bullet had not exited.

  Kurtz dropped the dentist's body on the icy balcony and walked over to Timmy, who was clicking away on empty chambers. Not wanting to touch the weapon even with his gloves on, he stepped on the man's hand until he dropped it and then rolled Timmy over with his boot. Two of the original .32 slugs had hit the big man in the chest, but one had caught him in the throat and another had entered below the left cheekbone. Timmy would bleed out in another minute or two unless he received immediate medical assistance.

  Kurtz walked into what had to be Dr. Conway's study, ignored the row of locked filing cabinets, found the big wall safe behind a painting of a naked man, and tried the combination. He thought that Conway had rat tied it off too quickly, under too much stress, to be lying. and he was right. The safe opened on the first try.

  Lying in the safe were metal boxes holding $63,000 in cash, stacks of bonds, gold coins, a sheaf of stock certificates, and a thick file folder filled with dental X-rays, insurance forms, and newspaper clippings. Kurtz ignored the money and took the folder out into the light slamming the safe door and scrambling the lock as he did so.

  Timmy was no longer twitching and the viscous flow of blood ran out onto the cement balcony where it had pooled around Dr. Conway's ruined skull and was coagulating in the process of freezing. Kurtz set the folder on the round table next to the empty wheelchair and flipped through it. He didn't think that this was a neighborhood where people would dial 911 at the first sound of what could be a gunshot.

  Twenty-three news clippings. Fifteen photocopies of letters to various urban police headquarters, dental X-rays attached. Fifteen different identities.

  "Come on, come on," whispered Kurtz. If Hansen's current Buffalo identity wasn't here, this whole mess had been for nothing. But why would it be here? Why would Conway know Hansen's current alias before it was necessary to identify him to the next round of homicide detectives?

  Because Hansen has to have the cover story ready in case the old dentist dies. Timmy would do the honors then. But there has to be a dentist of record.

  The next-to-last paper in the folder had the record of an office visit the previous November—a cleaning and partial crown. No X-rays. There was no bill, but a handwritten note in the margin read "$50,000." No wonder Dr. Howard K. Conroy accepted no new patients. Beneath it was an address in the Buffalo suburb of Tonawanda, and a name.

  "Holy shit," whispered Kurtz.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  « ^ »

  "Where the hell is he?" Detective Myers asked Detective Brubaker. The two had requisitioned a much better surveillance vehicle—a gray floral-delivery van—and were parked on station near the Royal Delaware Arms at 7:30 a.m., just in case Kurtz took it in his head to go to his office early. They'd discussed where and how to interdict him—an observed traffic violation on Elicott Street would be the pretext—and then the fast roust, the discovery of a weapon—the throwdown, if Kurtz wasn't armed in violation of parole, which they guessed he would be—the attempted resisting arrest, the subduing, and the arrest.

  Brubaker and Myers were ready. Besides wearing body armor, each man was carrying a telescoping, weighted baton in addition to his 9mm dock, and Myers had a 10,000-volt Taser stun gun in his pocket.

  "Where the fuck is he?" repeated Myers. Kurtz's Volvo was nowhere in sight.

  "Maybe he left early for that shithole office of his," said Brubaker.

  "Maybe he never came back from Orchard Park last night."

  "Maybe he was kidnapped by fucking UFOs," snarled Brubaker. "Maybe we should quit speculating and go find him and get this over wit
h."

  "Maybe we should just skip it." Myers was not eager to do this thing. But then, Myers was not being paid $5,000 by Little Skag Farino to bust Kurtz and get him back into prison so he could be shanked. Brubaker had considered telling his partner about the payment and sharing the money. Considered it for about two milliseconds.

  "Maybe you should shut up," said Brubaker, shifting the van into gear and driving away from the Royal Delaware Arms.

  James B. Hansen had to wait for the two other homicide detectives to drive off before he could park his Cadillac SUV where their van had been, and then go in the back entrance of the fleabag hotel. He took the back stairs up all seven flights to the room number Brubaker and Myers had listed in their report. Hansen could have used his badge to get the passkey for Joe Kurtz's room, but that would have been terminally stupid. However legitimate his excuse for checking on Kurtz might sound later, Hansen wanted no connection between the ex-con and himself until the investigation of the murder of one John Wellington Frears.

  Hansen noticed the plaster dust in the center of the stairs and hall leading to the eighth-floor room. Knowing that Kurtz had come and gone over the past few days, it had to be some sort of paranoid alarm system. Hansen kept to the walls, leaving no trace. The door to Kurtz's room was locked, but it was a cheap lock, and bringing out the small leather-bound kit of burglary tools he'd used for fifteen years, Hansen had the door open in ten seconds.

  The suite of rooms was cold and drafty but strangely neat for such a loser. Wearing gloves but still touching nothing, Hansen peered into the adjoining room—weights, a heavy bag, no furniture—and looked around the big room where Kurtz appeared to spend his time. Books—a surprise. Serious titles, a bigger surprise. Hansen made a mental note not to underestimate the intelligence of this shabby ex-con. The rest of the room was predictable—a half-sized refrigerator, a hot plate for cooking, a toaster, no TV, no computer, no luxuries. Also no notes or diaries or loose papers. Hansen checked in the closet—a few well-worn dress shirts, some ties, a decent suit, one pair of well-polished black shoes. There was no dresser, but a box in the corner held folded jeans, clean underwear, more shirts, and some sweaters. Hansen looked in all the obvious hiding places but could find no guns or illegal knives. He went back to the box of sweaters and raveled a long thread from the top sweater on the pile, dropping it into a clean evidence bag.

  In the sink was a rinsed coffee cup, a small plate, and a sharp kitchen knife. It looked as if Kurtz had used the knife to cut a slice of French bread and spread butter on it, then rinsed the blade. Lifting the knife gingerly, Hansen dropped it into a second evidence bag.

  The bathroom was as neat as the main room, with nothing beyond basics in the medicine cabinet—not even prescription pills. Kurtz's hairbrush and shaving kit were lined up neatly on the old pedestal sink. Hansen had to stop himself from grinning. Lifting the brush, he found five hairs and transferred them to a third evidence bag.

  Checking to make sure that he had left no trace, Hansen let himself out of the hotel room, locked the door behind him, and kept to the walls while descending the stairs.

  Kurtz had returned late from Cleveland, driven to the office, used his computer to double-check Captain Robert Millworth's address in Tonawanda, and then, around 6:00 a.m., had driven to Arlene's small home in Cheektowaga. She was awake and dressed, drinking coffee in the kitchen and watching a network early morning show on a small TV on her counter.

  "Don't come into the office today," Kurtz told her as he stepped past her into the kitchen.

  "Why, Joe? I have more than fifty Sweetheart Searches to process today—"

  He quickly explained about Dr. Conway's demise and the information he'd found in the dentist's safe. This was information Arlene had to know if she was going to be a help over the next few days. Kurtz glanced at the manila folder on the table. "Are those the photos I asked you to process?" Their old office on Chippewa Street years ago had been big enough to hold a darkroom in which Arlene had developed all the photos he and Sam had shot on the job. After her husband's death, Arlene had converted an extra bathroom into a darkroom at home.

  She slid the folder across the table. "Shopping for property?"

  Kurtz glanced through the blowups of the Gonzaga compound he'd taken from the helicopter. They'd all turned out.

  "So what do I do from home today, Joe?"

  "I'll be back in a while and someone may be with me. You have any problem entertaining a visitor?"

  "Who?" said Arlene. "And for how long? And why?"

  Kurtz let that go. "I'll be back in a while."

  "Since we aren't going into the office, is there any chance we can look at new office space today after your visitor leaves?"

  "Not today." He paused by the door, tapping the folder of photos against his free hand. "Keep your doors locked."

  "The Hansen thing, you mean."

  Kurtz shrugged. "I don't think it will be a problem. But if the cops get in touch, call me right away on the cell phone."

  "The cops?" Arlene lit a cigarette. "I love it when you talk like that, Joe."

  "Like what?"

  "Like a private eye."

  "So he's not at his fucking flophouse and he's not at his fucking office. Where the fuck is he?" said Detective Myers.

  "Did anyone ever tell you that you use the F word too much, Tommy?"

  Brubaker had given up smoking seven months earlier, but now he took a last drag on his cigarette and flipped the butt out the window of their surveillance van. It was almost 9:00 a.m., and not only was Kurtz's Volvo not parked in the alley behind his office, but the secretary's Buick wasn't there either.

  "So now what?"

  "How the fuck do I know?" said Brubaker.

  "So we just sit on our asses and wait?"

  "I sit on my ass," said Brubaker. "You sit on your fat ass."

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  « ^ »

  It was just 8:00 a.m. when Kurtz knocked on the hotel-room door, but when it opened, John Wellington Frears was dressed in a three-piece suit, tie knotted perfectly. Although Frears's expression did not change when he saw Kurtz, he took a surprised half step back into the room. "Mr. Kurtz."

  Kurtz stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "You were expecting someone else." It was not a question.

  "No. Please sit down." Frears gestured to a chair by the window, but Kurtz remained standing.

  "You were expecting James B. Hansen," continued Kurtz. "With a gun."

  Frears said nothing. His brown eyes, so expressive in the publicity photos Kurtz had seen, now suppressed even more pain than Kurtz had seen the previous week at Blues Franklin. The man was dying.

  "That's one way to flush him out," said Kurtz. "But you'll never know if he's brought to justice for his crimes. You'll be dead."

  Frears sat on the hard chair by the desk. "What do you want, Mr. Kurtz?"

  "I'm here to tell you that your plan won't work, Mr. Frears. Hansen's in Buffalo, all right. He's lived here for about eight months, moving here from Miami with his new family. But he can kill you today and he'll never be accused of the crime."

  Frears's eyes literally came alive. "You know where he is? What his name is here?"

  Kurtz handed the man the dental bill.

  "Captain Robert G. Millworth," read the violinist. "A police officer?"

  "Homicide. I checked."

  Frears's hands were shaking as he set the bill on the desktop. "How do you know this man is James Hansen? What does the bill—however high—from a Cleveland dentist prove?"

  "It proves nothing," said Kurtz. "But this is the dentist who's provided dental records to police around the country after a dozen murder-suicides identical to the one in your daughter's case. Always different names. Always different records. But always involved in murders that Hansen committed." He handed across the folder.

  Frears went through the pages, slowly, tears forming. "So many children." Looking up at Kurtz, he sai
d, "And you can tie this Captain Millworth to these other names? You have dental records for him?"

  "No. I don't think Conway kept any other records or X-rays on file for this office visit. I think he was going to use the standard X-rays when Millworth's corpse—whatever corpse Millworth provided—would need identification."

  Frears blinked. "But we can make the dentist testify?"

  "The dentist is dead. As of yesterday."

  Frears started to speak, stopped. Perhaps he wondered if Kurtz had killed Conway, but perhaps it was not important to him to know right now. "I can present this folder to the FBI. The bill ties Millworth to the dentist. The payment is obviously extortion. Conway was blackmailing James Hansen."

  "Sure. You can try to make that case. But there's no official record of Millworth's payment, just of an office visit."

  "But I don't understand how the dental X-rays matched the teeth of the bodies Mr. Hansen left behind in these various murder-suicides."

  "It looks as if Dr. Conway, DDS, had a clientele mostly of corpses."

  Frears looked at the forms again. "Conway's office was in Cleveland. Many of these murder-suicides occurred in cities far away from there. Even if Hansen somehow harvested these other men to be future burned bodies for him, how did he get them to go to Cleveland to have dental X-rays taken?"

  Kurtz shrugged. "Hansen is one smart son of a bitch. Maybe he offered these poor bastards dental care as part of an employment package. My guess is that he had Conway fly to whatever city he was living in at the time, X-ray the fall guys' teeth—maybe when they were already dead—and then have the dentist send the X-rays from Cleveland. It doesn't really matter, does it? What matters right now is getting you out of here."