Dead of Winter lk-2

by P J Parrish

  The sound of running water came from the bathroom. The man was taking his time. Louis went to the credenza and picked up one of the chess pieces. It was a pawn, in the shape of a soldier.

  “You play?”

  Louis turned. The man was about six feet, trim but broad-shouldered in his starched baby-blue shirt. His short hair was silver-blond and his ruddy clean-shaven face was that of man in his late thirties.

  “Some,” Louis said with a smile. “But I’m no good at it.”

  “Maybe because you think of it only as a game,” the man said. “It’s more than that. It’s science, poetry, mystery. Just when you think you are solving its secrets, it thwarts you.”

  “I never learned the strategy, I guess,” Louis said.

  The chief came forward to take to pawn from Louis. “Anyone can learn strategy,” he said. “Courage is what really counts, courage to use original moves that surprise your opponent.”

  Louis nodded, as if he understood.

  “Like a Marshall swindle, or a Lucena position,” the chief went on. He saw the blank look on Louis’s face and smiled. “Or a gambit. You know what a gambit is, don’t you?”

  Louis shook his head.

  “The gambit is when you sacrifice one of your pieces to throw an opponent off,” the chief said. “There are many different kinds — the Swiss gambit, the classic bishop sacrifice, the Evans gambit. These moves are what elevate the game to artistry.”

  Louis nodded, half expecting the man to ask him to play as part of the interview.

  The chief picked up Louis’s application from the desk. Louis found himself staring directly into the man’s face. It was chiseled, with a jutting jawline, broad forehead and strong brows shielding eyes the color of pale sapphires. Louis thought of a photograph in the National Geographic he had seen outside, the one of the mysterious stone statues on Easter Island with their massive powerful heads.

  Louis’s eyes dropped to the desk, looking for a nameplate. There was none.

  “So why’d you leave your last job?” the chief asked, looking up.

  “It was personal. It didn’t work out.”

  “I called down there, you know, to your little town in Mississippi.”

  Great, Louis thought. “Who did you talk to?”

  “A man named Junior Resnick.”

  Louis kept his face impassive. What a reference.

  The chief gave an odd smile. “The man’s obviously an idiot but he likes you. Says that you’ve got no sense of humor but you’re a smart guy.”

  “I’m surprised. We had our differences.”

  The chief gazed at Louis, as if taking his physical measure. “Investigator,” he said, tossing the application on the desk. “Impressive title for someone who hasn’t seen his thirtieth birthday yet.”

  “That’s all it was, a title.”

  “Well, when we give titles here it means something. That’s why we have so few.” He held up the pawn and smiled. “But even a pawn can win a promotion, maybe become a knight or a bishop, right?”

  Louis nodded. The chief put the pawn back in its place.

  “Tell me,” he said, turning, “did you get the respect you deserved down there or was it as hard as I suspect?”

  Well, that was a unique way to ask if being a black cop in the South was a problem. “Respect doesn’t come automatically with the uniform down there,” Louis said.

  “It does here,” the chief said. He went to his desk and pulled a pack of Camels from a drawer. He lit one and took a quick drag as he hefted a hip on the desk. Louis noticed how sharply creased his pants were. You could cut bread on them.

  “‘Il n’existe que trois etre respectables: le pretre, le guerrier, le poete. Savoir, tuer et creer.’”

  Louis stared at him.

  “Do you speak French?”

  Louis shook his head.

  “It’s Baudelaire. ‘There exists only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.’” He smiled. “We’re neither priests nor poets. That leaves soldiers.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke. His eyes seemed to turn cooler as he considered Louis. “I can train a man to do almost anything,” he said. “I can train him to shoot, do the damn paperwork. I can even train him to kill. But there’s something I can’t teach him. Do you know what that might be?”

  Louis hesitated. “A sense of honor?”

  “Is that what you think I want to hear or what you really think?”

  “Well, I don’t think you can teach honor.”

  The chief look another drag on the cigarette. “The one thing I can’t teach a man is loyalty.”

  This was getting weird. What was next, Buddhist proverbs? Haiku?

  “But as long as you feel honor is so important, perhaps you can define it for me,” the chief said.

  “I’d say that honor is acting with integrity.”

  The chief shook his head. “That’s a clean conscience.” He pointed the cigarette at Louis. “Honor is an exalted existence, earned by sacrifice and courage. It’s what makes you brave when you’re scared shitless, and it’s what makes that badge shine when you look in the mirror.”

  The chief paused to grind out his cigarette in the butt-filled ashtray. “So, does your badge shine?”

  “Sir?” Louis had been looking at a photograph on the wall of men in Army uniforms, looking for the chief in the foursome.

  “Does your badge shine?”

  Louis wanted to say he didn’t have a badge but he knew that wasn’t what the chief wanted to hear. “Yes, sir.”

  The chief drifted behind him. Louis resisted the urge to turn around. He squinted at a framed newspaper article to see if he could read any names. This was nuts. He didn’t know who he was talking to. He was beginning to wonder what he was talking to.

  “Can you do a hundred push-ups?” the voice behind him asked.

  “Yes,” Louis said, hoping he wouldn’t be asked to prove it.

  “Can you pass a drug test?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you qualify as?”

  “On the range? Expert.”

  “You ever kill anyone?”

  Louis looked back at him over his shoulder. “No, sir.”

  The chief came back to stand before Louis. “Could you?”

  “Yes,” Louis said. “But I hope I never have to.”

  The chief smiled.

  He was blowing this. He could feel it.

  “You ever had to fire your weapon at a human being?” the chief asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Ever been reprimanded?”

  “Once.”

  “What for?”

  Shit. Keep it simple. “Insubordination.”

  “Define insubordination.”

  Louis wet his lips. “I did something — ”

  “I don’t care what you did. Define the word.”

  “Technically, it’s a refusal to carry out a direct order by a superior.”

  The chief shook his head, smiling. “It’s not as simple as that.”

  What was simple with this guy?

  “When an officer chooses a course that is not aligned with that of his commander then that is mutiny of sorts. And that is not acceptable. Do you understand?”

  Louis nodded.

  The chief turned abruptly, going back behind his desk. He grabbed the pack of Camels and pulled out a fresh one. “These are rules and listen good,” he said. “First, never tell me smoking is bad for my health. You’ll get a suspension the first time and I’ll fire your ass the second time.”

  He was hired. Shit, that was all?

  “Sir, will there be an oral board?”

  “I am the oral board.”

  “Testing?”

  “You passed it once, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Second rule, you will always wear a full uniform. That includes your gun. I catch you out of uniform, I’ll suspend you. You’ll be issued all your l
eather. You own a.357?”

  “No, sir, a thirty-eight.”

  “In this department everyone carries the same weapon. That’s the third rule.”

  Louis suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t afford a new weapon.

  “We’ll give you one at twenty-five dollars a week,” the chief said. “You damn well better last long enough to pay it off. And don’t lose it. It’ll cost you five hundred dollars to replace it.”

  Plus I’ll be suspended, Louis thought.

  “Plus you’ll be suspended.” The chief paused, his eyes seeming to warm a bit. “Loon Lake is a good clean place, Kincaid,” he said. “And this is a good clean department. We may be small in size but not in spirit. These men are top-notch officers, all good honest cops. And we are a tight unit.” He pointed to a small plaque on the wall. “We have a motto here. Gens una sumus.”

  Louis waited but no translation seemed forthcoming. “Latin, sir?”

  “Yes. ‘We are one family.’ Never forget it. Your fellow officers are your brothers.”

  Louis nodded. The chief went to the door and opened it. “Firearms testing is the first Thursday of every month. You fail you go on suspension. Any questions?”

  “None that I can’t ask the other officers.”

  “Let’s go then. I’ll turn you over to McGuire.”

  Louis followed him to the outer officer. Dale jumped up and came hurrying over.

  “We share desks here,” the chief said. “This is yours for the day shift. It’s Ollie’s at night. That’s Ollie over there, sucking down the caffeine. Wickshaw, say hello to our new man, Kincaid.”

  The tall skinny man at the coffee pot nodded. Louis nodded back.

  “McGuire will get you started on your paperwork,” the chief said. “You need to go home and get your things?”

  Louis glanced at the wall clock. It was after eight. He would have to stay the night. “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine, you can start Monday morning.” The chief thrust out his hand. “Welcome to the force. I hope you’ll be happy here.” He smiled. It was a frosty effort, but not completely forced.

  Louis shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  The chief walked back into his office, closing the door. Louis stared at the door. The chief was an odd bird, what with the French and the quotes. He was also a bit too spit-and-polish but he seemed to lean in the right direction and that was all that mattered.

  Louis surveyed the room, the fireplace, the tinsel-draped computer, the photograph of Thomas Pryce. He felt a twinge of guilt that another cop had to die to make his chance here possible. But it felt right, this town and this job. For the first time in his life, things felt right.

  “Welcome to Loon Lake, Louis.”

  Louis shook Dale McGuire’s hand. “Thanks. You know, no one told me the chief’s name.”

  “Gibralter.”

  “Like the rock?”

  Dale smiled. “Yeah, Brian Gibralter. But don’t ever call him Brian. Or God forbid, Rocky. Nothing will get you suspended quicker.”

  Louis rubbed his face, suddenly tired. “I can’t believe there’s no test, no oral board.”

  “That’s the way he does things.”

  “But fifteen minutes? What can he tell about me in fifteen minutes? What did he do with the other candidates?”

  “He only saw three,” Dale said. “He kept telling me none of them looked right.”

  “What?”

  Dale’s eyes drifted to the photograph of Thomas Pryce. Louis followed his gaze.

  “He hired me because I’m black?” Louis asked. “What, to fill some quota or something?”

  “Hell, no,” Dale said quickly. “Chief doesn’t care about that stuff. You must have just said something in there he liked.” He nodded toward the photograph. “Like him.”

  Louis shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

  “Thomas Pryce was a good cop,” Dale said. He shrugged, looking for the words. “Somebody you could respect, you know? I think the chief just saw something of him in you, that’s all.”

  Louis looked again to the photograph. “How old was he?”

  “Thirty-two,” Dale said. “You’re the same height and build. What size shirt do you wear?”

  “Sixteen, thirty-four.”

  Dale smiled. “See? He won’t even have to buy new uniforms.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Raise your right hand.”

  Louis lifted his hand and took a deep breath.

  “Do you, Louis Washington Kincaid, on this twentieth day of December, nineteen hundred and eighty-four, solemnly swear to uphold and enforce the laws of the United States of America and the great state of Michigan to the best of your ability?”

  Louis looked down at the silver shield in Gibralter’s hand.

  “With professionalism, integrity and honor?” Gilbralter added.

  “I do,” Louis said.

  Gibralter slapped the badge in Louis’s palm.

  “Welcome to Loon Lake, badge number 127.”

  Louis heard soft applause and turned. Five officers stood in a half-circle, all dressed in light blue shirts, dark blue trousers, navy ties and billed Garrison caps. Louis pinned the badge on this shirt.

  “McGuire, is Kincaid ready to go?” Gibralter asked.

  Dale hustled over. “You sign that gun agreement, Louis?”

  Louis nodded, watching the chief as he ambled away to talk to another man. “I signed everything. Didn’t see a union card.”

  “You won’t,” Dale said quietly. “And we don’t use that word in civilized conversation in this office, Louis.”

  A union-free department. That was scary.

  “Read your manual, Kincaid,” Gibralter said, turning back. “Ignorance is not an acceptable excuse here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your call number is 11. Loon-11,” Dale said.

  Louis would have laughed except for the utter seriousness on Dale’s face.

  “Chief, who you want to put him with?” Dale asked.

  Louis looked at the officers. Damn, he was getting a training officer.

  “Harrison!” Gibralter called out.

  A man stepped out of the knot and sauntered over. He was about the same age as Louis. His thick hair was like rich mahogany. He had expressive brown eyes that softened his slightly pitted face. There was a long thin scar down his neck that disappeared into his collar. He looked up at Louis, shaking his head.

  “Jeez, Chief,” another six-footer. When you going to give me someone I can look in the eye?”

  Gibralter, on his way back to his office, hollered back over his shoulder, “Buy some goddamn elevator shoes.”

  Harrison grinned and thrust out his hand. “Jesse Harrison. Welcome to Loon Lake, Kincaid.”

  Louis shook his hand. “Thanks.”

  “You ready?” Jesse put on his jacket and reached for the car keys on the desk. On the ring was a dirty orange rabbit’s foot. He saw Louis looking at it.

  “Don’t say a word about my rabbit’s foot,” he said. “It brings me luck.”

  “In this town, why do you need it?” Louis asked as he followed Jesse Harrison out the door.

  “Kincaid, I’ve been unlucky all my life. I was born on September 13, my badge number is 113 and when I joined this department, Gilbralter gave me call number 13. If you were me, what would you carry?”

  “A gun,” Louis said.

  Jesse opened the glass door with his rear end. “I like a man with a sense of humor, Kincaid. We should get along fine.”

  The moment Louis got inside the police cruiser he flipped the heater up to high.

  “Living down South thin your blood?” Jesse asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  “My car wouldn’t start. I had to walk in.” He wondered how Harrison had found out so quickly about his stint in Mississippi.

  “Where you staying, at the Loon Lake Lodge?”

  “No, I rented a cabin on the lake.”

  “North or south side?” />
  Louis thought for a moment. “South. Just outside town.”

  Jesse swung the car down Main Street. “Good. You don’t want to be staying up north with the Eggers.”

  “What?”

  “That what I call the rich tourists. You know, East Egg. You never read The Great Gatsby?”

  “Saw the movie.”

  “Bad movie, great book.” Jesse’s grin had a touch of superiority. “I read a lot. Anything I can get my hands on. Lots of biographies, history books. I like psychology stuff best. The chief says I’m an autodidact. That means I’m self-taught.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Jesse glanced over at him. “You went to University of Michigan, right?”

  Again, Louis wondered how Harrison had found out so much about him so fast. “Yup,” he answered.

  “That’s great,” Jesse said softly, nodding his head.

  They drove on, Jesse offering a lay of the land. The town of Loon Lake was clustered on the southeastern end of the lake. Jesse explained that it was not hard to get the feel for the town’s layout: the small commercial heart was bordered by the residential houses, perfect little square lots with chain-link fences that split the area into a grid. The city park, with its new baseball diamond, sat on a tract of pine-choked land just north of the residential area.

  As Jesse drove north up Highway 44, which circled the lake, the homes grew sparser, giving way to bait shacks, trailers and towering pine trees. Up on the north end, Highway 44 was intersected with dozens of narrow roads. They were the driveways of the tourists’ properties, Louis realized. Most were gated or chained with signs that hinted at the humor and hopes of the people who dwelled within: BLISSFUL ACRES, TWIN PINES, THISTLE DEW, THE LOONEY BIN. Louis strained to get a glimpse beyond the thick trees but could see nothing. Jesse told him that the locals didn’t really mix much with the tourists.

  “They look down their noses at us some,” Jesse said. “You know, like we’re a bunch of yahoos.”

  Louis nodded.

  “But we just smile and take their money,” Jesse went on. “We’re a big tourist destination here. Hell, if it wasn’t for the Eggers, Loon Lake would be just like all the other crappy little dots on the map up here.”

  Louis was looking out the window.

  “You see that fire station back there?” Jesse said. “Egg money built that place last year. Best in four counties. Bought the lights on the baseball diamond, too.”