A Cold Day in Paradise

by Steve Hamilton

  “Wait, I think I saw something,” he said. “Go back to that driveway.” I pulled the truck over and put it into reverse. We both looked down at a small cottage. There was a silver car parked next to it, but it wasn’t a Mercedes.

  “Sorry, false alarm,” he said.

  “This is hopeless,” I said. “We’re never going to find his car. Even if we do …” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Just keep going,” he said. He looked me in the eyes. “Go.”

  We kept working our way down the road. There weren’t many driveways this far out in the woods. We slowed down by each one and then sped up to the next.

  I don’t know how many driveways we checked. I lost all track of time. The rain came on harder.

  Finally, Uttley said, “Alex, look.” There was a cottage that looked closed up for the winter. Parked next to it was a state trooper’s car.

  And next to that was a silver Mercedes.

  “Oh God, Alex.”

  I took the truck down the driveway and pulled in behind the trooper’s car. We got out to look at the Mercedes.

  “This is Edwin’s car,” Uttley said. We looked through the windows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  “It’s unlocked,” I said.

  “We shouldn’t touch it, though, right?”

  I nodded. My whole body was numb.

  “Where are the troopers?” he said. The place was deserted.

  “Let’s go see,” I said.

  We made our way down a dirt path to the beach. As soon as we got near the water we could see the troopers. They were standing over a rowboat. One was bent over it like he was looking at something. The other was looking up at the rain, sheltering his face with one hand and holding a radio with the other. We could hear the faint crackling and then a metallic voice breaking in.

  I ran down the beach, working hard to make my way over the stones. Uttley was right behind me. As we approached the boat, the troopers looked up at us. “Who are you?” one of them said.

  “What did you find?” I said.

  “I need to know your name, sir,” he said.

  “I’m Alex McKnight,” I said. “I’m…” What do I say? “I’m a friend of Edwin Fulton. What did you find?” I looked into the rowboat.

  “Please, sir,” the trooper said, “you can’t touch anything.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I just want to—”

  I saw blood. On the side of the boat. It was mixing with the rain and washing down into a pool of faint pink.

  And floating in that pool, driven by the wind into a slow spiral, was a single red rose.

  The second trooper, the one who was bent over the boat, looked up at the first. “Call them again,” he said. “This rain is messing everything up.”

  “They said they’re on their way.”

  “Damn it all.”

  I went closer to the boat. I stood right over it and looked down at the blood. Uttley stood behind me, his arms wrapped around his body to keep his coat from whipping in the wind.

  “Sir,” the trooper said, “you really need to step away from that.”

  I ignored him, looking down at the oarlock. I got down on my knees and looked at it closely. I tried to find my voice, but I could not speak.

  The troopers needed to do something about this. They needed to collect this evidence before the wind blew it away.

  Wrapped around the oarlock were several strands of long blond hair.

  The hair was thick and coarse. Like the hair that would come off a long blond wig.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THERE WERE TWO policemen at the Fultons’ house when Uttley and I got there. They were Soo officers I had never seen before, and the way they were standing around in the kitchen made it obvious that they wished they were somewhere else. When Uttley and I came in, one of them looked us up and down and said, “Which one of you is McKnight?”

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “Chief Maven wants you to stick around until he gets here.”

  “Fuck him,” I said. I was tired, my face burned from the cold wind. But I didn’t care how I felt, or what Maven would do to me when he found me. I was beyond caring about anything.

  “Where is everybody?” Uttley said. Aside from the cop, the place was empty. There was a broom leaning against the kitchen counter, next to a pile of broken glass.

  “Mrs. Fulton is in her bedroom,” the cop said. “The older one, I mean. The younger Mrs. Fulton is outside.”

  “Outside?” Uttley said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Um…” The cop looked at his partner. “I’m afraid the two Mrs. Fultons had a bit of a fight when they … you know, when they found out about Mr. Fulton.”

  “Where did she go?” Uttley said. “You just let her go out there?” He looked out the big picture window overlooking the lake. The rain was beating against the window like it meant to harm us.

  “She was in no mood to listen to us,” the cop said. “There was nothing we could do. And your name would be?” He slipped into his cop voice while he hitched up his belt. That was the last thing we needed right now.

  “This is Lane Uttley,” I said. “He’s the family lawyer. He’s the guy who’s going to have your badges if you don’t get out there and find Mrs. Fulton.”

  “I don’t like that tone of voice, Mr. McKnight.”

  “You’re not going to like my boot up your ass, either,” I said. “The woman just found out that her husband is dead and you let her go running out into the freezing rain. Did she have a coat on even?”

  The cop just looked at me.

  “If you don’t get out there and find her right now,” I said, “I swear to God, I’ll beat you so bad you won’t even recognize yourself.”

  “Alex, come on.” Uttley moved in between us.

  “The chief is on his way over here,” the cop said. “You can deal with him.”

  “Let’s go find Edwin’s mother,” Uttley said. He led me out of the kitchen. The door closed behind us as the cops went outside.

  We went through the house to the guest wing, and stood outside her room. We could hear the faint noise of her sobbing. Uttley tapped on the door. “Mrs. Fulton? It’s Lane and Alex.”

  There was a long silence. Then the door opened. Mrs. Fulton looked ten years older. “What do you want?” she said. Her voice was raw.

  “Mrs. Fulton,” Uttley said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  She looked at me. “What about you? Are you going to say you’re so sorry, too?”

  “Mrs. Fulton …” I said.

  Her open hand hit me across the face. I didn’t even try to stop her. “You were supposed to protect him,” she said. “That was your responsibility.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I hate you,” she said, her voice breaking. “I hate this place. I always hated this place. It’s cold and dark and full of backwoods trash and Indians and … oh God, Edwin. Please. This can’t be happening.”

  Uttley put his arms around her. I left the two of them there in the hallway.

  At the window I could see that the rain had let up into a steady drizzle. But the wind was still howling and it kept whipping up the surface of the lake. I could see the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline below the house. It wasn’t even a lake anymore, not on a day like this. It was a sea, the kind of sea that wrecks ships and pulls men to their deaths. And now Edwin was out there, somewhere at the bottom of all that cold water. The state would drag the lake near where the boat was found, I knew, but it would be hopeless. These waves would pull his body down to the deepest, coldest heart of Lake Superior, down where the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald lay. All twenty-nine men would welcome him into their midst.

  Rose did this. Rose killed Edwin and then he dumped his body in the lake. The water was calm enough last night, before the storm hit. He could have taken him out a good mile or more if he knew how to row. He heaved Edwin’s body over the side of the boat and watched him
sink. And then he rowed back to shore. It must have been dark. Maybe the rain was beginning to fall already. Maybe the water was already turning ugly. Maybe it was hard rowing all the way back to shore.

  But he did make it back. I know that because I read his note. I saw the boat and the blood and the long blond hairs. It was Rose. Somehow it was Rose.

  And he’s still out there.

  I rubbed my face where Mrs. Fulton had hit me and watched the two police officers outside. They had come around the house and now they were working their way down the path to the beach. When they got to the shore, they split up, one going in each direction.

  A minute later I saw Sylvia come around the opposite side of the house. She started down the path where the officers had gone. And then she stopped. She turned around and looked right at me, as if it suddenly came into her mind that I must be standing there at the window watching her. She didn’t have a coat on, just a sweater. It was wet and it clung to her body. Her hair was tangled by the wind. She was shivering.

  I was just about to go out to her, to offer her my coat and to try to convince her to come inside. But something stopped me. Why in God’s name I didn’t go out to her, I don’t know. I just kept standing there looking at her until she finally turned away and went down the path toward the lake.

  God help me, I still wanted her. After all that had happened I still wanted her.

  “McKnight,” a voice said from behind me. It was the last voice in the world I wanted to hear. And along with that voice came a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned around and faced Maven. His hair was wet, his face bright red from the wind. I could see a couple welts on his neck from where my hands had been. There was another man standing next to him, a man who looked like he was ordered from the same catalog. He was a little younger than Maven, he had a little more hair, a better mustache. But that same hard-ass cop look in his eyes, that same little power-trip gum-chewing swagger. And he was just as wet and windblown as Maven. I was expecting to get a double-barrel shot from both of them at once, but instead Maven said, “Alex, how are you doing?”

  I looked from one face to the other. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Listen, Alex,” Maven said. “I know this is difficult for everybody. I just wanted to apologize, first of all, for our … disagreement earlier. And I want you to know that I am truly sorry about the loss of your friend. This is Detective Allen from the Michigan State Police.”

  “Mr. McKnight,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”

  I shook his hand. I still didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t figure out why he was talking to me like an actual human being. He must be putting on a little show for this state guy, I thought. Although I couldn’t imagine Maven sucking up to anyone.

  “Detective Allen has been trying to get a couple boats out to drag the lake in the vicinity of the crime scene, but I’m afraid the weather is not being very cooperative.”

  “Even if this lets up,” the detective said, “you realize that it’s a long shot, of course. It’s a big lake out there.”

  I nodded.

  “In any event,” the detective said, “we just wanted to let you know that both agencies are on this case now.”

  “You have the hair?” I said. “From the boat?”

  “From the oarlock, yes,” he said. “We have some blood samples, as well. Although there’s probably not much doubt about whose blood it is.”

  “Did Maven tell you about Rose?”

  “Yes, I’ve been apprised of that situation.”

  “We need to talk to him,” I said. “I mean, whoever it is that’s in that jail cell. You can make that happen, can’t you?”

  I saw him give Maven a quick look.

  “What is it?” I said. “You guys aren’t telling me something.”

  “Mr. McKnight…”

  “You know something about Rose, don’t you.”

  “Alex,” Maven said, “we’d like you to come down to the station with us. I think we all need to work together to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Just tell me what’s going on,” I said.

  “Not here,” Maven said. “Please, Alex.” He looked around. “We don’t want to disturb anyone else. Where’s Mrs. Fulton, anyway?”

  “She’s lying down,” Uttley said as he came into the room. “What’s going on?”

  “This is Lane Uttley,” Maven said to the detective. “He’s the Fultons’ lawyer.”

  “I’m Detective Allen from the State Police,” he said as he shook Uttley’s hand. “We were just going over some matters with Mr. McKnight.”

  Uttley looked back and forth between them and then at me. “Going over what matters?”

  “They may have some information about Rose,” I said. “They want me to go back to the station to talk about it.”

  “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “You’ve got to stay here, Lane. Mrs. Fulton needs you here. And Sylvia—” I turned around and looked out the window. “Sylvia is out there.”

  Lane came to the window and looked out. “Where is she?”

  “On the beach,” I said. “She doesn’t have a coat on.”

  While we stood there, the two Soo officers came back into view. They walked up the path toward the house, and when they saw all four of us standing at the window watching them, they stopped. I felt a lump in my stomach, and I pictured Sylvia wading out into the cold water, shivering and blue. But then finally I saw her walking down the shoreline. She walked right behind the officers, but they were oblivious to her. They just stood there looking at us looking at them.

  “For God’s sake, Lane,” I said. “Will you go out and get her?”

  “Why don’t we both go get her?” he said.

  “Just go,” I said. “I need to go to the station.”

  He looked at both Maven and Allen. They had already started toward the door. “Alex, something’s not right here.”

  “We’re just going to talk about Rose,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He shook his head. “Call me when you’re done, Alex.”

  I went outside with the two men. “I’ll follow you in my truck,” I said.

  They looked at each other. That look, it should have tipped me off. “Why don’t you ride with us?” Allen said.

  “Then I’ll be there and my truck will be here,” I said. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Mr. Uttley can take care of that, can’t he?” Maven said. “His car is back at the casino, anyway, isn’t it? He can bring your truck into town and then you can go get his car.”

  I didn’t feel like arguing about it, so I just threw my keys on the front seat of my truck and got in the back of Maven’s car.

  It had been a long time since I had seen the back of a police car. When we were on our way I sat up and laced my fingers through the wire cage and looked at them. “All right, so what’s going on with Rose?” I said.

  Maven just sniffed and kept driving.

  “Come on, tell me what’s going on,” I said.

  “We’ll talk at the station,” he said. It finally sank into my thick head. They were taking me in.

  “Maven, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said.

  “Please, Mr. McKnight,” Allen said, turning his head. “Just relax. We’ll all be more comfortable at the police station.”

  I sat back in the seat. After all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, I couldn’t make any sense of it. Surely they don’t think I had anything to do with what happened to Edwin, I thought. They didn’t arrest me. They didn’t read me my rights.

  I looked out the window at the pine trees. Edwin is dead. I poked my finger through a hole in the seat. Somebody was smoking back here and they burned a hole.

  When we got to the station I tried to open the back door. It didn’t open, of course. I had forgotten, the back doors don’t open from the inside on a police car. I waited
for Maven to open it for me. “Come on in, Alex,” he said. “Right this way.”

  “I know the way,” I said. But instead of taking me to his office, he led me into an interview room. There was a table in the middle of the room, with four chairs. Another table stood against the wall with a coffee pot and a small refrigerator. A map on the wall showed the different types of fish in the inland lakes.

  “We’ll have more room in here,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  “Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “Of course, Alex,” Allen said. “Please sit down.” He pulled a chair out for me.

  “Now how did you say you like your coffee?” Maven said. “One sugar, no cream?”

  I sat down. “Yes,” I said. “That’s right.” The man is finally going to make me some coffee. This is getting worse by the minute.

  He poured the coffee in a mug and put it down in front of me. Then he sat down across from me, next to Allen. I looked from one face to the other while a curl of steam rose from the coffee.

  “Mr. McKnight,” Detective Allen said, “tell me about this man Rose.”

  “I thought you said Maven told you all about him,” I said.

  “I want you to tell me,” he said. “Chief Maven might have left something out.”

  I went over the whole story, starting at the hospital in Detroit, Rose’s apartment, the gun, the shooting. I told him how Rose went away for life, how I never figured on hearing from him again, until the phone calls and the notes started coming.

  “These notes,” Allen said. “They all seem to have been typed on the same typewriter.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the same man wrote them.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Just thinking out loud,” Allen said. “Let’s talk about the dead men. The first two, I mean.” Maven just sat there, watching me.

  “I didn’t know them.”

  “Tony Bing, a local bookmaker,” Allen said. “Your friend Edwin found him in his motel room.”