by P J Parrish
He wondered sometimes what kind of women married cops, what kind of women could put up with the life. Sometimes, in locker rooms or in bars after shift, he would listen to the married men talk about their wives. The words were often wrapped in dark humor but he could sense in them the chasm the job created between a man and woman. He remembered one guy telling about the time he took his wife out for their twentieth anniversary dinner. He spotted a weirdo at the 7-Eleven and jumped out of the car, drawing his gun. She started to cry, yelling that she was tired of being married to John Wayne.
And he had heard the divorced cops talk. It was always the same, about how no one could really understand what it was like. About wives who finally gave up trying to dance in a world of positives when their husbands walked in a world of negatives.
He himself was only twenty-five and had never been with one woman longer than weeks. The women he had dated had no idea what his job was like and he felt no compulsion to share it with them.
Cop’s wife. For the first time, he had a picture of what that meant. The picture was Stephanie Pryce’s sad face.
Louis pulled the afghan tighter. He couldn’t delay any longer. Time to go out for logs.
He rose and went to the door. He slipped his feet into a pair of old loafers and stepped outside. The air was cold and still, and when he pulled in a breath, it sent knives into his lungs. Quickly, he shuffled around the side of the cabin, retrieved the last three logs and started back to the porch.
He was about to go in when he heard a muffled sound. It sounded like a cat, a soft mewing sound. His eyes searched the darkness. A second sound came to him.
“Shit…shit…”
Someone was out there, down by the shoreline. The moon emerged from the clouds and he saw her. She was down on one knee, her silhouette clear against the moonlit white lake. She was rubbing her left leg. It was the teenage girl he had seen jogging on other nights. And from the looks of it, something was wrong.
Louis let the logs drop to the porch. Wrapping the afghan tighter around his shoulders, he gingerly waded out through the snow toward her. She heard him and looked up.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, fine. I’m fine,” she said quickly. “I fell. I’m fine.”
“Here. Watch it.” He held out his hand.
Her dark eyes glistened up at him from her round face. Her dark hair was wet, plastered to her head like a sleek helmet. Her long ponytail hung limply behind. She hesitated then took his hand. Louis gently pulled her to her feet and she winced.
“You’re not fine,” Louis said.
“Yes, I am.” She took a step away and winced again. “Shit.” Her eyes swept over the lake, off into the distant pines.
Louis stood, shivering. His loafers were soaked. “Look, you’re hurt. Come on inside and we’ll take a look.”
“No,” she said quickly. “I have to get home.”
Louis studied her. She wasn’t a girl, as he had thought, but a young woman. She was small, only about five-foot-two, with a boyish body, plainly visible in the runner’s leggings and close-knit jacket. But her legs and ass were tightly muscled, like a marathon runner’s. “How far is home?” he asked.
She frowned. “The other side of the lake.”
“Right. You’re going to run five miles on one leg? Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“I’ll walk,” she said crisply.
Louis shrugged. “Suit yourself, lady. But I’m freezing my ass off here. I’m going in. You can stay out here or come inside.” He cocked a head toward the cabin and smiled. “Got a fire going. Or at least I did.”
She stared at him for several seconds then wiped a wet strand of hair off her face. “Okay. Thanks.”
He offered his hand but she ignored it, limping ahead of him toward the cabin. He gathered up the logs and followed her inside. She stood by the door watching him as he slipped out of his loafers and went to throw a log on the embers. He poked at the fire until it reignited. When he turned, she was still standing in the shadows by the door.
“Let me warm up a minute and then I’ll drive you home,” he said.
She nodded.
He wondered how old she was. She looked to be maybe twenty or so. He suppressed a sigh, thinking suddenly of Abby Lillihouse. The last thing he needed was another messy liaison with a starry-eyed young woman like he had experienced in Mississippi. The small surge of anticipation he had felt outside when he first saw the girl was fading fast now. Jesus, protect me from crazy girls.
He glanced back at her. She was shivering. “Here, come over by the fire,” he said.
Warily, like a cat in a strange place, she came across the room. As she did, the fire illuminated her face. It was strangely exotic and olive-complected. Her strong brow and jawline were a contrast to her high delicate cheekbones. Her mouth was large, too large for her small face. Her nose was small but with a slight flare to the nostrils. And her eyes…they were almond-shaped and there were a few lines at the corners and a vigilance inside. Louis stared at her. This was no twenty-year-old. She was at least as old as he was.
She came close to the fire and held out her hands. They were small with short fingers and close-cropped nails, like a boy’s hands.
“Feels good,” she said.
“I’m Louis,” he said, extending a hand. “Louis Kincaid.”
She slipped her hand into his. Her hand was soft, warmed from the fire, but the grip was firm. He could feel callouses.
“Zoe,” she said. “Zoe Devereaux.”
She pulled her hand away and ran it over her hair, down to the end of the ponytail. She looked back into the fire.
“I’ve seen you jog by before,” Louis said.
“I run almost every night,” she said.
“In the snow?”
She nodded. “I’ve been doing it for years. This is the first time I fell.”
“Well, I’m glad it happened outside my place.”
She looked up at him then offered a cautious smile. “You’re new here,” she said. “This place has been deserted for years.”
“Yes, just moved here.”
“From where?”
Louis hesitated. Mississippi? Detroit? Ann Arbor? “South of here,” he said finally. “How about you?” Somehow, he couldn’t see this woman being from Loon Lake.
“Chicago,” she said. “I rent a cabin up on the north end.”
Louis smiled. An East Egger.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
He came around and sat down on the sofa. He shrugged off the afghan, suddenly aware how he looked in his old gray sweatpants, flannel shirt, tube socks and day-old beard. He wished he had taken a shower. Even in her running clothes and tangled hair, Zoe looked elegant somehow. He felt a stirring halfway between his gut and his groin. Jesus, how long had it been? That woman he met at the bar three months ago. Some nice sex, some good talk, but nothing more. The ache, he realized, was more than sexual. It was plain old loneliness.
Louis glanced at her left hand. No ring. “So you’re here with your family?” he asked.
“No. I’m alone.”
Thank you, God…
“No family at all?” he asked.
“I don’t have any family. I come here to get away.”
“Loon Lake is a strange place for a woman to spend a vacation alone.”
“I’m an artist. I do landscapes, snow scenes mainly. I come here every winter to paint,” she said. She seemed to be watching him for his reaction.
“No kidding? I’ve never met an artist. I’ve never met anyone really creative before. Except maybe the old woman who knitted this thing.” He held up the afghan.
Zoe smiled and sat down on the far end of the sofa.
“Can I get you a drink?” He gestured toward the small refrigerator. “Haven’t got much. Beer? Some bad brandy?”
She shook her head.
He jumped to his feet. “Cocoa,” he said.
She
hesitated then nodded. “All right. Cocoa.”
He went to the kitchen, pulling out a small pot and the can of Nestle’s from the cupboard. He got out the milk carton and saw it was nearly empty. He poured what was left into the pot and added tap water. As he waited for it to heat, he glanced back at her. She was just sitting there, staring into the fire. He quickly stirred the lukewarm cocoa and brought it back to the living room.
She took the cup, cradling it in her hands, her eyes on him as he sat back down. He took a drink and grimaced.
“It’s terrible,” he said.
“It’s fine.” She glanced over his shoulder at the door. He sensed that she wanted to leave. He wasn’t going to let her, not if he could help it.
“So, tell me about your paintings,” he said.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“My work is private. I find it hard to talk to strangers about it.” When she saw the look on his face, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounded pretentious.”
“No, that’s all right,” Louis said quickly. “I understand.”
“Do you know the Beauman Gallery on Lake Shore Drive?”
“Never been to Chicago.”
“Oh…well, that’s who handles my work.”
The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. He was trying to decide whether to tell her he was a cop. He could never tell what sort of reaction that would draw from a woman. Some were intrigued, a few repulsed. Most were just puzzled. Zoe Devereaux, his instincts were telling him, needed only the smallest excuse to bolt and he didn’t want his badge to be it. He took a sip of cocoa, looking at her profile out of the corner of his eye.
Jesus, what a face. Not exactly beautiful, certainly not pretty. She was obviously mixed. But of what? A faint memory came to him in that instant. A memory of himself as a child, sitting on the worn wooden porch. A woman was brushing his hair. His mother? He couldn’t see her face. He saw the faces, though, of the three little black girls who stood barefoot in the dirt watching in fascination. Can we touch it? One asked shyly, can we touch his hair? It was the first time he realized he was different.
His eyes traveled to Zoe’s hair. It was almost dry now, forming a soft cascade of tight curls around her face. It was neither black nor brown exactly, but the color of the last leaves of fall, wet from the rain.
“You’re staring at me again.”
He smiled slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just — ”
“What?”
He shook his head. “It’s personal.”
“Go ahead,” she said.
He hesitated.
“My mother was Korean,” Zoe said evenly. “My father was black. Is that what you wanted to ask?”
Louis nodded. “You were born here?”
“No, in Korea. My mother died and I was in an orphanage for a year. Then one day this man showed up, this tall, black, American soldier. He told me he was my father. He took me to California.” Zoe leaned back against the sofa. “I was ten years old.”
“That’s incredible,” Louis said.
“What?”
“That he went back for you.”
She nodded then seemed to drift off to some private place. “I loved him,” she said after a moment. She looked up at him, her eyes warmed by the fire.
Louis waited, sensing she wanted to go on. He wanted her to, feeling that if she did the moment could last, maybe grow into something more. But she remained silent, her eyes vacant in the waning firelight. It occurred to him that she talked of her father in the past tense. He was dead and Louis had the feeling it was recent. She had the aura of a person in mourning, still tender to the touch.
“He passed away?” Louis asked gently.
She nodded, not looking at him.
Louis regretted asking the question. It had apparently taken her further into some private place.
“He was killed,” she said suddenly. “It was during the Watts riot. A sniper bullet.”
Louis drew in a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said softly.
“He was a policeman,” Zoe said.
“What?” he said.
“He was in one of the riot-control units. They surrounded his car. He couldn’t get out.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold. “He was black. It didn’t matter,” she said.
Louis leaned his head back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. When he looked back at her, she was staring at the fire.
He rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. He set the mug down and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the sink.
“It’s late,” she said. “I’d better go.”
He turned to face her. She was standing by the door. She slipped on her running shoes, kneeling to lace them up. Louis came over to the door and reached for his jacket.
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
“It’s not necessary.”
“I want to.”
They said nothing as they trudged out through the snow to the Mustang, half-buried in a drift. Louis wanted to say something, anything to fill the chill void that had formed between them. He wanted this to move forward somehow. Despite what she had said. Despite what he was.
The Mustang started after several tries. “It’s an old car,” Louis said. “I never know what will happen. Sorry, there’s no heat.”
She nodded vigorously. “Take 44 north,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”
She said nothing after that. Louis made a few weak comments about the snow, the cold, the lake. But she remained silent. Finally, she directed him to turn onto a small side road and stop at the bottom of a hill.
“It’s steep. Your car won’t make it up. I’ll walk from here,” she said quickly.
She opened the door. Louis grabbed her left hand.
“I want to see you again,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” he pressed.
In the dim glow of the car’s overhead light, he could see something anxious cloud her face.
“I don’t know you,” she said. “And you don’t know me.”
“Okay, but I want to.” His hand tightened on hers.
She shook her head slowly.
“Let’s just try it,” Louis said.
She looked down at his hand. He felt her arm tense as she tried to pull away. He let go.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Zoe — ”
She got out of the car, started to close the door then stopped. She looked away, up the hill into the dark woods and then back at Louis.
“Do you run?” she asked.
“I used to in college. Cross-country.”
“What did you think about?”
Louis had only thought about winning the race but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Everything.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. When I run.”
CHAPTER 7
Louis pulled the scarf up over his face against the blinding wind. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he could make out the glow of the station house sign and breathed an icy sigh of relief. It was only a one mile walk from his cabin to the station, but Jesus, what a long damn mile.
He forged ahead, hurrying the last steps. Inside, he fell back against the glass. The warm air filled his lungs, sending a violent shiver through him.
Florence, the day-shift dispatcher, looked up from the desk. “Louis, are you all right?”
He nodded and slowly unwrapped his scarf. He could feel the ice melting off his eyebrows. For a moment he just stood, afraid his bones would snap if he moved.
“Did you walk to work?” Florence asked.
He nodded again and moved stiffly to the fireplace, pulling off his hardened leather gloves. “Car wouldn’t start.”
Florence went to the coffee urn. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you call someone?”
Louis watched her as she poured a cup of coffee. She was in her sixties, a frizz of
white hair topping a willow-thin body. She looked like a Q-tip, a skinny negative to Edna’s rotund positive.
“No phone yet,” Louis said. He unzipped the jacket and let it drop off his arms.
Florence pressed a mug of coffee into his hands and held her bands over his for several seconds. She smelled like peppermint and her wrinkled hands were warm. “Next time, you radio in and Dale will give you a jump.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Louis sipped the coffee, closing his eyes as the warmth trickled through him. He was pouring a second cup when Dale came through the front door, offering a cheerful “good morning.” When Dale returned from the locker room, Louis was waiting at the grating of the evidence room.
“What are you doing here so early?” Dale asked.
“Couldn’t sleep. I need the Pryce file cabinet.”
Dale snapped the keys off his belt. “Sign the log and note the time.”
Louis went to the counter, flipped open the ledger and signed in.
“You want me to bring it out?” Dale asked.
“Grab me that stool. I’ll just stay in here.”
Dale slid a rolling stool over to him and Louis wheeled it into the small room. The ceiling-high plywood shelves towered over him, sagging with age and the weight of decades of boxed and bagged evidence. Everything was sealed with orange tape and dated with wrappers’ initials. On one shelf were confiscated weapons: broken guns, knives, power tools. Louis stood up to turn on the light. His eye caught a Ziploc bag with a pair of women’s panties inside. The tag read CUNNINGHAM RAPE, 69-23119.
Louis sat down and pulled open the top drawer of the file cabinet from Stephanie Pryce. He wanted one more look before they sent it back to Flint. He sifted through the folders, pulling out one that said RECEIPTS. It was crammed with bills for gas, dry cleaning, a new holster, boots and other job-related expenses. Pryce must have been saving these for his taxes.
As Louis slipped it back in its place, he noticed another file wedged inside of it. He pulled it out; it was labeled RESUME and he knew immediately that he had missed it last night. Inside were a dozen crisp copies of Pryce’s resume, clippings of employment ads and a few letters. A familiar letterhead caught his eye: The City of Detroit. He pulled out the letter, addressed to Pryce at his home. Due to budget cuts, the city is not adding additional officers at this time…
