Hard Freeze

by Dan Simmons

  The venial, corrupt cop and the fat slacker were eating doughnuts in Myers's Pontiac, across the street from Arlene DeMarco's house.

  "Nothing, Captain," reported Brubaker. "She hasn't even come out for her paper."

  "Her car's still in the garage," said Myers, belaboring the obvious. The driveway showed six inches of fresh snow and no tire tracks.

  Hansen glanced at his watch; it was not quite 8:30 a.m. "Why don't we go in and say hello?"

  The two detectives stared at him over their gnawed doughnuts and steaming coffee. "We got a warrant, Captain?" asked Myers.

  "I've got something better," said Hansen. The three men got out in the falling snow. Hansen opened his trunk and handed the pneumatic battering ram to Myers. "Brubaker, you ready your weapon," said Hansen. He took his own Glock-9 out, chambered a round, and crossed the street to the DeMarco house.

  He knocked three times, waited a second, stood to one side, and nodded to Myers. The fat man looked at Brubaker as if questioning the order, but then swung the ram. The door burst inward, ripping its bolt chain off as it fell.

  Hansen and Brubaker went in with pistols held high in both hands, swinging their weapons as they moved their heads. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear. Kitchen—clear. Bedrooms and bathrooms—clear. Basement and utility room—clear. They returned to the kitchen and holstered their weapons.

  "That bugger packs a wallop," said Myers, setting the battering ram on the table and shaking his fingers.

  Hansen ignored him. "You're sure someone was home when you started the stakeout?"

  "Yeah," said Myers. "I could see a woman moving around in the living room yesterday afternoon before she pulled the drapes. Then the lights went off about eleven."

  "The lights could have been on a timer," said Hansen. "When was the last time you saw someone move?"

  Myers shrugged. "I dunno. It wasn't dark yet. Maybe, I dunno, four. Four-thirty."

  Hansen opened the back door. Even with the new snow, faint tracks were visible crossing the backyard. "Stay a few paces back," he said. Not bothering to pull his glock from its holster, he followed the faint depressions in the snow across the backyard, through a gate, across the alley, and through another backyard.

  "We got another warrant for this house?" asked Brubaker from the yard as Hansen went to the back door.

  "Shut up." Hansen knocked.

  A woman in her seventies peered fearfully through the kitchen curtains. Hansen held his gold badge to the window. "Police. Please open the door." The three detectives waited while a seemingly endless number of bolts and locks and chains were released.

  Hansen led the other two into the woman's kitchen. He nodded at Brubaker, who beckoned to Myers, and the two began searching the other rooms of the house while the old lady wrung her hands.

  "Ma'am, I'm Captain Millworth of the Buffalo Police Department. Sorry to bother you this morning, but we're looking for one of your neighbors."

  "Arlene?" said the woman.

  "Mrs. DeMarco, yes. Have you seen her? It's very important."

  "Is she in some kind of trouble, Officer? I mean, she asked me not to mention to anyone…"

  "Yes, ma'am. I mean no, Mrs. DeMarco's not in any trouble with us, but we have reason to believe that she may be in danger. We're trying to find her. What is your name, ma'am?"

  "Mrs. Dzwrjsky."

  "When did you see her last night, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"

  "Yesterday afternoon. Right after Wheel of Fortune."

  "About four-thirty?"

  "Yes."

  "And was she alone?"

  "No. She had a Negro man with her. I thought that was very strange. Was she his hostage, Officer? I mean, I thought it very strange. Arlene didn't act frightened, but the man… I mean, he seemed very nice… but I thought it was very strange. Was he kidnapping her?"

  "That's what we're trying to find out, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Is this the man?" Hansen showed her the photo of John Wellington Frears.

  "Oh, my, yes. Is he dangerous?"

  "Do you know where they went?"

  "No. Not really. I loaned Arlene Mr. Dzwrjsky's car. I mean, I almost never drive it anymore. Little Charles from down the street drives me when I have to—"

  "What kind of car is it, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"

  "Oh… a station wagon. A Ford. Curtis always bought Fords at the dealership out on Union, even when—"

  "Do you remember the make and year of the station wagon, ma'am?"

  "Make? You mean the name? Other than Ford, you mean? My heavens, no. It's big, old, you know, and has that fake wood trim on the side."

  "A Country Squire?" said Hansen. Brubaker and Myers came back into the kitchen, their weapons out of sight. Brubaker shook his head. No one else in the house.

  "Yes, perhaps. That sounds right."

  "Old?" said Hansen. "From the seventies perhaps?"

  "Oh, no, Officer. Not that old. Curtis bought it the year Janice's first daughter was born. Nineteen eighty-three."

  "And do you know the license number on the Ford Country Squire, ma'am?"

  "No, no… but it would be in that drawer there, with the registration forms and the car-insurance stuff. I always…" She paused and watched as Brubaker rifled through the drawer, coming up with a current license-registration form. He said the tag number aloud and put the form in his coat pocket.

  "You're being very helpful, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Very helpful." Hansen patted the old woman's mottled hands. "Now, can you tell us where Arlene and this man were going?"

  Mona Dzwrjsky shook her head. "She did not say. I'm sure she did not say. Arlene just said that something very important had come up and asked if she could borrow the station wagon. They seemed in a hurry."

  "Do you have any idea where they might have been going, Mrs. Dzwrjsky? Anyone that Arlene might try to contact if there were trouble?"

  The old woman pursed her lips as she thought. "Well, her late husband's sister, of course. But I imagine you've spoken with Gail already."

  "Gail," repeated Hansen. "What's her last name, ma'am?"

  "The same as Alan's and Arlene's. I mean, Gail was married, twice, but never had children, and she took back her maiden name after the second divorce. I used to tell Arlene, you can never trust an Irish boy, but Gail was always…"

  "Gail DeMarco," said Hansen.

  "Yes."

  "Do you know where she lives? Where she works?"

  Mrs. Dzwrjsky looked as if she might cry. "Gail lives near where Colvin Avenue becomes Colvin Boulevard, I think. Arlene took me to visit her once. Yes, right near Hertel Plaza, north of the park."

  "And where does she work?" asked Hansen, his voice more impatient than he meant it to be.

  The old woman looked afraid. "Oh, Gail has always worked at the Erie County Medical Center. She's a surgical nurse there."

  Hansen patted her hands again. "Thank you, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. You've been a huge help." He nodded for Brubaker and Myers to head back to the DeMarco house.

  "I hope that Arlene is all right," said the old woman from the back door. She was weeping now. "I just hope Arlene is all right."

  Back in Arlene DeMarco's kitchen, Brubaker used his cell phone to call Dispatch. They got Ms. Gail DeMarco's address on Colvin and the phone number, and Hansen called. There was no answer. He called the Erie County Medical Center, identified himself as a police officer, and was informed that Nurse DeMarco was assisting in surgery right now but would be available in about thirty minutes.

  "Okay," said Hansen. "You two get over to the house on Colvin Avenue."

  "You want us to go in?" asked Myers, lifting the battering ram off the table.

  "No. Just stake it out. Check the driveway and call me if the Ford wagon is there. You can ask neighbors if they've seen the car or Arlene DeMarco or Frears or Kurtz, but don't go in until I get there."

  "Where will you be, Captain?" Brubaker seemed half-amused by all this urgency.

  "I'm going to stop at the Medical Center on the way. Get going."

/>   Hansen watched from the front window as the two drove off in their unmarked cars. Then he walked back across the yard, through the carport, across the alley, and knocked on Mrs. Dzwrjsky's back door again.

  When the old woman opened the door, she was holding the phone but it appeared that she hadn't dialed a number yet. She set the phone back in its cradle as Hansen stepped into the kitchen. "Yes, Officer?"

  Hansen pulled the Glock-9 and shot her three times in the upper chest. Any other time, he would take the chance that the woman would call someone rather than take the chance of leaving a body behind, much less leave two detectives as witnesses, but this was an unusual situation. All he needed was a day or two and none of this would matter for Captain Robert Gaines Millworth. Probably just one day.

  Hansen stepped over the body, making sure not to step in the widening pool of blood, picked up his ejected brass, and took time to reload the three cartridges in the dock's magazine before walking back through the yards to his waiting Cadillac Escalade.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  « ^ »

  Earlier that morning, Kurtz and Angelina Farino Ferrara sat in the front seat of her Lincoln and watched Captain Robert Millworth drive away from his home. It was 7:15 a.m.

  "There was another car in the garage," said Angelina. "A BMW wagon."

  Kurtz nodded and they waited. At 7:45, a woman, a teenage boy, and an Irish setter backed out in the station wagon. The woman beeped the garage door shut and drove off. "Wife, kid, and dog," said Angelina. "Any more in there?"

  Kurtz shrugged.

  "We'll find out," said Angelina. She drove the Town Car right up the long Millworth driveway and they both got out, Angelina carrying a heavy nylon bag. Kurtz stood back while she knocked several times. No answer.

  "Around back," she said. He followed her through the side yard and across a snowy patio. The nearest neighbor was about a hundred yards away behind a privacy fence.

  They paused by the sliding doors to the patio as Angelina crouched and studied something through the glass. "It's a SecureMax system," she said. "Expensive but not the best. Would you give me that glass cutter and the suction cup? Thanks."

  Yesterday evening, in front of the fire over brandies, with Kurtz almost too tired to concentrate, she had told him her story… or at least the part of it that had made her laugh when he'd told her that he would need a B&E man.

  Angelina Farino had always wanted to be a thief. Her father, Don Byron Farino, had worked to keep her sheltered from the facts of his life and would never have considered allowing her to take part in the family business. But Angelina did not want to be involved in every aspect of the business—not then. She just wanted to be the best thief in New York State.

  Her brother David introduced her to some of the legendary old second-story men and in high school Angelina would visit them, bringing wine, just to hear their stories. David also introduced her to some of the rising young thugs in their father's organization, but she didn't care much for them; they bragged about using guns, violence, and frontal assaults. Angelina wanted to know about the smart men, the subtle men, the quiet men, the patient men. Angelina did not want to be another mobster; she wanted to be a cat burglar; she wanted to be The Cat; she wanted to be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief.

  She had put herself in harm's way with Emilio Gonzaga when she was in her early twenties because she thought that Gonzaga was going to introduce her to a safecracker she'd always wanted to meet. Instead, as she put it, Emilio introduced her to his dick.

  Exiled to Sicily to have the baby, she had married a local mini-don, an idiot exactly her age but with half her IQ, "to keep up appearances." After appearances were kept up and after the baby died and after the young don had his unfortunate hunting accident—or accident cleaning his pistol, Angelina let them choose the story they wanted—she flew to Rome to meet the famous Count Pietro Adolfo Ferrara. Eighty-two years old and suffering the effects of two strokes, the count was still the most famous thief in Europe. Trained by his legendary thief of a father between the wars, active in the Italian resistance, and credited with stealing the communiques from Gestapo headquarters that led to the interdiction and assassination of Mussolini and his mistress, it was often said that the handsome, daring Count Ferrara had been the model for that Cary Grant character in To Catch a Thief.

  Angelina had married the bedridden old man four days after they met. The next four years were, in her words, a training camp for becoming a world-class thief.

  "What are you doing?" said Kurtz. He was moving from foot to foot on Hansen's patio. It was damned cold and his hair was wet with snow.

  Angelina had cut a circular hole from the lower part of the patio door, had removed the glass carefully, and was reaching inside with a long instrument. She ignored Kurtz.

  "Isn't that security system set for motion or messing with the glass?" asked Kurtz. "Haven't you tripped it already?"

  "Would you shut up, please?" She reached in to clip on red and black wires and connected them to a module that connected with a Visor digital organizer. She studied the readout for a second, shut off the Visor, and unclipped the wires. "Okay," she said, standing and throwing her heavy black bag over her shoulder.

  "Okay what?"

  "Okay we open the door the usual way and have eight seconds to tap in the six-digit code on the keypad."

  "And you know the code now?"

  "Let's see." She studied the back door a minute, removed a short crowbar from her bag, broke the glass, and reached in to slip the chain lock and undo the main lock. It seemed to Kurtz that she had used the full eight seconds just to do that.

  Angelina walked into the rear hallway, found the keypad on the wall, and tapped in the six-character alphanumeric code. An indicator on the security keypad went from red to green to amber. "Clear," she said.

  Kurtz let out his breath. He pulled his pistol out from under his coat.

  "You expecting someone else to be home?" said Angelina.

  Kurtz shrugged.

  "You going to tell me now whose house this is and how it relates to Gonzaga?"

  "Not yet," said Kurtz. They went from room to room together, first the large downstairs, then all the bedrooms and guest rooms upstairs.

  "Jesus," said Angelina as they came back downstairs. "This place is the definition of retro anal retentive. It's like we broke into Mike and Carol Brady's house."

  "Who the hell are Mike and Carol Brady?"

  Angelina paused at the top of the basement stairs. "You don't know the Brady Bunch?"

  Kurtz gave her a blank look.

  "Christ, Kurtz, you've been locked away longer than twelve years."

  The basement had a laundry room, a bare rec room with a dusty Ping-Pong table, and a room locked away behind a steel door with a complicated security keypad.

  "Wowzuh," said Angelina and whistled.

  "Same code as upstairs?"

  "No way. This is a serious piece of circuitry." She started pulling instruments and wires from her bag.

  Kurtz glanced at his watch. "We don't have all day."

  "Why not?" said Angelina. "You have things to see and people to do today?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, don't get your jockey briefs in a bunch. In two minutes, we'll either be in or we'll have armed private-security people all over our ass here."

  "Private security," said Kurtz. "This guy's alarms don't go to the cop house?"

  "Get serious." She focused her attention on removing the keypad from the wall and connecting her wires to its wires without setting off the silent alarm.

  Kurtz wandered back upstairs and looked out the front window. Their black Town Car was parked in plain sight, although the increasing snowfall made visibility more problematic. Kurtz was thankful that Hansen had bought a relatively isolated house with such a long driveway.

  "Holy shit!" Angelina's voice sounded far away.

  Kurtz trotted down the stairs and went through the open door. It was
quite a private office—mahogany-paneled walls, a lighted gun case running from floor to ceiling, a heavy, expensive-looking wooden desk. On the wall above and behind that desk were photographs of James B. Hansen posing with various Buffalo worthies, plus a scad of certificates—Florida Police Academy diplomas, shooting awards, and commendations for Lieutenant and Captain Robert G. Millworth, Homicide Detective.

  Angelina's eyes were narrow when she wheeled on Kurtz. "You had me break into a fucking cop's home?"

  "No." He walked over to the large wall safe. "Can you get into this?"

  She quit staring daggers at Kurtz and looked at the safe. "Maybe."

  He looked at his watch again.

  "If this were a small, round safe, we'd have to pry the fucker out of the wall and take it with us," said Angelina. "You just can't get any blast leverage on a round safe. But our boy went in for the heavier, more expensive type."

  "So?"

  "So anything with corners, I can get into." She set her bag down near the safe door and began removing timers, primers, thermite sticks, and wads of plastique.

  "You're going to blow it?" Kurtz was wishing that he'd gone to check on Arlene, Frears, and Pruno before doing this errand.

  "I'm going to burn our way into the lock mechanism and get at the tumblers that way," said Angelina. "Why don't you make yourself useful and go make us some coffee?" She worked for a few seconds and then looked up at Kurtz standing there. "I'm serious. I didn't get my full three cups this morning."

  Kurtz went up to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker, and made the coffee. He found some cannoli in the refrigerator. By the time he started down the stairs with two mugs and a dish with the cannoli, there came a loud hiss, a muffled whump, and an acrid odor filled the air. The safe looked intact to Kurtz's eye, but then he saw a fissure around the combination lock. Angelina Farino Ferrara had attached a slim fiberoptic cable to the Visor organizer and was watching a monochrome display as she clicked the combination.

  The heavy safe door swung open. She accepted the cup of coffee and drank deeply. "Blue Mountain roast. Good stuff. Cannoli's just okay."