Ice Run: An Alex McKnight Novel (Alex McKnight Mysteries)

by Steve Hamilton

  “Thank you, Chief,” I said as I stood up. I looked him in the eye. “I mean that. Thank you.”

  “Stay away from them,” he said, standing up himself. “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I said. “Loud and clear.”

  I kept hearing him, all the way down the hall, until I walked out the lobby door into the cold air.

  When I had the heater going enough to use my hands, I dialed Mac Henderson’s number on my cell phone. It rang a few times, then a woman answered. I asked for Mac. She asked me to hold for a moment. A few seconds passed. Then I heard a male voice on the line. It was a deep voice. It didn’t sound like that of an old man. I introduced myself, told him that Roy Maven had given me his number.

  “Roy Maven!” the man said. “How is that old bird doing? I haven’t heard from him in ten years.”

  “He’s just fine,” I said. “As mellow as ever.”

  That got the man laughing. “Roy was a real live wire back in the day,” he said. “I don’t imagine that’s changed much.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to discuss an old case.”

  “I’ve been off the job for almost twenty years now, but go ahead.”

  “The man’s name was Jean Reynaud—”

  “Murdered outside the Ojibway Hotel. Shot in the back of the head.”

  “Okay, I guess you remember.”

  “I’ll tell you why, Mr. McKnight. In twenty-seven years on the police force, I might have seen, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight murders? Were you living up there back in the seventies?”

  “No,” I said, “but I know things were a lot different then.”

  “Yeah, different is one word for it. But I tell you, even with all that other stuff going on, we never had many murders in town. That’s not counting the lake, of course. Old Superior, she’d kill a half-dozen men every year. I’m sure she still does.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyway, what did I say, seven murders? Maybe eight? Every single one of them I solved except one.”

  “Jean Reynaud.”

  “Exactly. I got absolutely nowhere with that one. No weapon recovered. No witnesses. The victim has no apparent ties to anyone in the area at all. I mean, absolutely nothing. Really no physical evidence at all, aside from a .45 caliber slug that went right through the back of the poor man’s head and out through his face. Aside from that, we didn’t have a thing to go on.”

  “I was a police officer myself for eight years,” I said. “Down in Detroit. So I think I know what you mean. There’s no such thing as a totally random crime.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Just what you say. Yet this was as close to random as I ever saw, before or since.”

  “I saw the old report today. Apparently, you interviewed members of Mr. Reynaud’s family?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Let me see … He was a Canadian, right? I had to cross over and go to this little town on the North Channel…”

  “Blind River.”

  “Yes, that’s right. God, it’s all coming back to me now. Isn’t it funny how that works? I haven’t thought about it for so long … I remember, the family had already been notified, of course. This was a couple of days afterward. I went out to this big farmhouse. Mr. Reynaud’s parents lived there, and I think he and his wife were living there, too. And their little girl. I remember this little girl running around. She must have been around six or seven years old. An absolute little doll. But it was really kind of heartbreaking, because this girl obviously didn’t know what was going on. She kept asking her mother where her daddy was.”

  “Her name’s Natalie,” I said. “She’s a cop herself now.”

  “Is that right? I’ll be damned.”

  “So what happened when you talked to the family?”

  “I remember talking to the man’s father first, I think. He was pretty stoic about the whole thing. He was a real hunk of granite, you know what I mean? One of those old guys who’ve worked real hard all their lives. They’ve seen it all, sickness and death. Hard times. He was just trying to keep everyone else from falling apart, it seemed like. He didn’t have much to say to me. In fact, I don’t think he was real happy to have me there, asking them all these questions. He just wanted everybody to leave them alone.”

  “I never met the man,” I said. “But from what I’ve heard about him, that sounds like him.”

  “The mother, she was real upset. Naturally. I mean, this was their only child. The strange thing was she told me that her son had never been to Soo Michigan in his whole life. Which was hard to believe, since they only lived what, a couple of hours away. But no, she said. She never wanted him to go down there, because it was such a terrible place. And I can’t argue with them, of course. What am I gonna say? Here I am sitting there in their house, wearing a Soo Michigan uniform, and the only reason I’m there is because their son got murdered as soon as he set foot in the place for the first time in his whole life. It was pretty uncomfortable, to say the least.”

  “I imagine.”

  “So next, I talk to the wife. She was pretty young-looking, I remember that. A real attractive woman, too, but I don’t know …”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything in the report, because, well, I wasn’t sure how I’d even say it. She just seemed to be a little … off center about things.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It was hard to put my finger on. I mean, you were a cop. You know how it is when you talk to somebody and everything they’re saying adds up, but just the way they’re saying it, you sorta get the feeling that everything isn’t being said. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Are you saying you suspected she was involved in the murder?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just that… God, what was it? All the time I was talking to her, she was telling me that her husband had gone down there to Soo Michigan to go to this bar at the Ojibway Hotel, and had never come back home, and that they had gotten a phone call the next morning … And I remember thinking, how come she wasn’t mad at him? I mean, on the night itself, when he left her with their kid so he could go all the way down there to celebrate New Year’s Eve? She told me everything else about that night, right down to the tiniest detail. I mean, this woman could talk. But not once did she tell me how she felt that night. Then even on that day, here I was talking to her about her dead husband, and she’s telling me all these other things about how she’s gonna have to live with her in-laws, and what’s she gonna do with her daughter. Again, not one word about how she was coping with it herself, or how she felt about losing her husband. She would talk about anything, but as soon as she got close to her own self, she would stop short. I think that’s what gave me a strange feeling about her.”

  I thought hard about what he was saying. I’d known enough liars in my life. You can’t be a cop without meeting plenty of them. For the worst of them, the truly hopeless born liars, maybe this is how it all starts, by keeping a tight lid on your own secrets. By never revealing the truth about yourself. When you’ve learned to control the truth, then you can start bending it. Just a little at first, then a little more when you see what it can do for you. A lie can open doors for you. Or close them.

  A lie can keep you safe.

  “Now the best friend, on the other hand,” Henderson went on, “he had no problem telling me how he felt about it.”

  “You talked to Albert DeMarco?”

  “Yeah, that was his name. He lived just down the road. As I recall, the two of them were both going to go down to the Ojibway Hotel that night. The way he described it, it almost sounded like a rite of passage for these guys. Everybody in Ontario knew what a wild place Soo Michigan was back then, and especially when your families are telling you never, ever to step foot there. Well, you can imagine what a couple of young men are going to think of that.”

  “But Jean Reynaud was married.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah, I know. Either he just needed a guys’ night out, away from the family, or maybe stepping out was more of a habit for him. I never really got a line on that one. The one thing that was pretty clear was that Mr. DeMarco blamed himself for his friend’s death. He had some reason … What was it? He got real sick that day, or something. So Reynaud went by himself. Which struck me as odd, too, now that I remember it. I had all sorts of little alarm bells going off in my head that day.”

  “Did you press them on it?”

  “I tried to. But like I said, I was already in a tough spot, being the ambassador from Sodom and Gomorrah, trying to find out how their man had gotten killed. I needed special permission from the Canucks just to be there in the first place. So no, Mr. McKnight, I never did get anywhere with that case. I still think about it, to this day. Can you tell?”

  “I think I’d be the same way.”

  “You said the little girl became a cop. What happened to the rest of them? The man’s parents are gone by now, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, they are,” I said. “So is Mr. DeMarco. I guess he died a couple of years ago. His mother’s still kicking around, though. I think she’s ninety-six years old now.”

  “DeMarco’s mother? Oh yeah, I remember meeting her. I don’t think we talked much, though. She’s ninety-six, eh? That’s pretty impressive.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Tell me, Mr. McKnight. .. The fact that you’re asking me about this now. Does this mean you might have some new information?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Let me throw a name at you. Simon Grant. Does it ring any bells?”

  “Simon Grant.. . Simon Grant.. .” There was a long pause while he thought about it. “No, it doesn’t. Are you telling me he might have killed Reynaud?”

  “I honestly don’t know that, sir. But it looks like he may have been involved.”

  “What does he have to say for himself?”

  “I’m afraid he’s dead now. He froze to death a few days ago.”

  “My, it sounds like things are getting interesting up there.”

  “I promise you, sir, I’ll let you know whatever we find out.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said. “It’s good to close the book on things, even if it’s thirty-odd years too late.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re gonna say hello to Roy for me, right? The two of you are good friends?”

  “I’m not sure you could go that far.”

  “Well, send my best anyway. What’s the weather like, anyway?”

  “Cold and snow,” I said. “What else is it gonna be?”

  “It’s eighty degrees here right now,” he said. “I was out working on the boat. But I’ll tell you, Mr. McKnight, even though it may be paradise down here, I still miss the old Soo-town. There’s just something about the place, you know what I mean?”

  “I do, sir. Although eighty degrees does sound pretty good right now.”

  I thanked the man, and promised to keep in touch. I even promised him one more time that I’d give his regards to Chief Maven. But I wasn’t about to go do that right then. I called Natalie. The machine picked up. I left another message, told her I had talked to the detective who had handled the case in 1973. I told her I was worried about her and that she should call me as soon as she got home.

  You’re starting to sound like a nag, I thought. Let the woman be, for God’s sake. Maybe she just had a miserable time with her mother, and she wants to be alone for a while.

  From there, I went right back to imagining the worst. She had promised me she would call, no matter what. She’s not the kind of person who breaks a promise.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t feel like driving back to Paradise. I didn’t want to sit around in my cabin. I didn’t want to hang out at Jackie’s and get another lecture.

  I could go visit the Grants, I thought. Or the Woolseys.

  No, Alex. You’re not the kind of person who breaks a promise, either.

  I sat in the car for a while, watching the snow start to fall again. A county car rolled in next to me. The deputy got out of the car and hustled inside to get out of the cold air.

  I picked up the phone again and dialed information. “Grace Reynaud,” I said, “in Batchawana Bay, Ontario.” I had no idea what last name she would be using now. She’d been Grace DeMarco at one time, Grace Reynaud before that. Hell, for all I knew, she was back to her maiden name now, whatever that was. But Reynaud seemed like a good place to start.

  The operator found the name, but told me that the number was unpublished. I thanked her and hung up.

  I watched the snow some more. I picked up the phone one last time. I dialed Natalie’s number and listened to it ring. The answering machine picked up, Natalie’s recorded voice asking me to leave a message. I turned the phone off.

  Now what, Alex?

  I put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot.

  When all else fails, it’s time to do something stupid.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Batchawana Bay was a small town, probably the kind of place where everybody knew everybody else. It wasn’t that far away. In fact, it was closer than Blind River. After I cleared the bridge, all I had to do was head due north on the Queen’s Highway instead of east. The snow was piled high to either side, but the road itself was clear. I figured I could get there within half an hour, easy.

  I passed through Soo Canada, then hit the open road leading north through Heyden and Goulais River. There was nothing to see but white fields and trees bending under great weights of snow, until I finally began to see the frozen expanse of Lake Superior to the west. It was Whitefish Bay, my end of the lake, but seen from the wrong side. I had come all the way around the bay because I was worried about Natalie, because she was heading into a tough situation and most of one day had passed and I still hadn’t heard from her. That was all it took.

  I would have driven a lot farther. I knew that. I would have done just about anything for her on this cold winter’s day, even with the bruises still fresh on my face, with my ribs still hurting and my knee still stiff. Jackie was absolutely right about me. But I couldn’t change that. That was the way I was, for better or worse.

  As the town of Batchawana Bay got closer, I started to wonder why Natalie’s mother was living there. I had been up here before, and it had struck me as one of the loneliest places I had ever seen, the Canadian equivalent of Paradise, Michigan. Of course, maybe that’s why she liked it. I’d been down that road myself.

  I figured the simplest thing to do would be to stop in at the most likely bar, ask if Grace was around. If it was her regular place, somebody would know her. Hell, everybody would know her. If it wasn’t, I’d just go on to the next place.

  I stopped at a gas station near the public docks. As I stood pumping the gas, I breathed in the cold air and looked out at the bay. The ice stretched as far as I could see. Next to the station was a restaurant, with a long row of windows running along one side. In the summer, it would be a nice place to sit and watch the boats on the water. Today it looked like a nice place to stay warm and get quietly hammered.

  I paid the man for the gas and moved the truck to the restaurant lot. When I opened the door, three men looked up from the bar.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad,” the first man said. He had two empty shot glasses lined up in front of him. A cigarette burned in the ashtray. “Don’s in the bathroom, so you’ll have to wait a minute.”

  “Does Don run this place?”

  “No, he just cleans the bathrooms as a hobby.”

  The other two men at the bar laughed. I closed my eyes and counted to three.

  “Okay,” I said, “so do any of you guys know a woman named Grace?”

  “Yeah, we know her,” the first man said. “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m trying to find her,” I said. “It’s important.”

  “That didn’t answer
my question, eh? And what happened to your face?”

  The other two men laughed again. This was turning into some real entertainment on a gray afternoon. The first man picked up his cigarette and took a long drag.

  “I’m a friend of her daughter’s,” I said. “Do you know where she lives or not?”

  “Her daughter’s not alive anymore,” the man said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She died a few years ago.”

  I stepped up to the man. He had the red eyes and nose of a hard drinker and he hadn’t shaved in a week. Hell, even with all my bruises, this man still looked worse than I did.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Did Grace tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Food poisoning. Not that it’s any of your business, friend. Who are you, anyway?”

  I closed my eyes again, counted to five this time. “Look, I just need to know where she lives. Can you tell me that, please?”

  “As far as I know,” the man said, “Grace lives right here in this bar. It’s the only place I’ve ever seen her.” He nodded his head toward an empty stool at the far end of the bar.

  “What’s going on?” another man said, stepping out of the bathroom. “Did somebody find Grace?”

  “I’m looking for her,” I said. “Are you Don?”

  “Yeah, who’s asking?”

  “I’m a friend of Grace’s daughter,” I said. “Please, don’t start with the food poisoning …”

  “Come over here,” he said. He led me away from the men at the bar, toward one of the big windows. “These guys aren’t gonna be any help.”

  “So you know Grace pretty well?”

  “As well as anybody,” he said. He looked down for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck. It made me think that maybe he did more for Grace than pour her drinks. “Now, tell me why you’re looking for her, because I’ve been kind of worried myself.”

  “She hasn’t been around today?”

  “No, she hasn’t.”

  “I take it that’s pretty unusual.”

  “Yeah, you could say that. This is the first day I can remember that she hasn’t been in here.”