Dead of Winter lk-2

by P J Parrish

  The contents of the raid file were spread out on the bed. Louis rubbed his face, trying not to give in to his fatigue and disappointment.

  It was here. It had to be. He just couldn’t see it. Something had gone wrong that night and there was something in this file about it that Gibralter did not want Steele to see.

  What had happened? And who was involved? His gut was telling him it was Jesse. The guy had lost it just busting a harmless hippie. Had he done something at the cabin that Gibralter felt compelled to cover up?

  Louis slid off the bed and went into the darkened kitchen, got another Dr Pepper and returned to the bedroom. He popped the top and took a long drink, his eyes scanning the papers and photos.

  Jesse’s report was on top, the last thing he had been reading. He stared at it, taking another drink then froze, the can at his lips.

  It was typed.

  Louis picked it up. He hadn’t noticed it before. Dale had said Jesse couldn’t type, that he was always allowed to write out his reports. Louis himself had seen it, Jesse’s distinctively heavy, right-slanted scrawl. He had seen it on the hippie report, on Mrs. Jaspers’s reindeer report and Stephanie Pryce’s statement.

  Setting the soda can down, Louis read Jesse’s report again. Something about it didn’t ring true. The wording, the grammar, the phrasing were wrong. Jesse was an emotional man, someone who couldn’t stifle his feelings even when writing a routine report. And what had Dale said about Jesse being upset after the raid? This report wasn’t written by someone emotional, with a kid’s blood fresh on his uniform. This was too perfect, too…cool.

  Louis flipped to the end of the report. It was signed but with just “Jesse Harrison,” not with Jesse’s trademark triple-underlined signature and usual postscript: NO MORE THIS REPORT.

  Louis pulled out Ollie’s report. The wording was virtually identical to that in Gibralter’s and Jesse’s reports. Lovejoy’s version was the same. Louis shook his head. Every cop had his own way of writing reports. What were the chances that four cops would have the same style?

  He rummaged for Pryce’s report. It was typed like the others. But as Louis read, he became aware that its phrasing and grammar were different with small idiosyncrasies not obvious in the others. He set it aside and dug out the diagram showing the positions of the officers surrounding the cabin. Jesse, Ollie and Lovejoy all ended up in the backyard with Gibralter. But Pryce had been ordered to maintain his position in front. There was no way he could have seen what happened in the backyard.

  All right, so Gibralter might have been the author of all the reports except Pryce’s. But would Steele even notice that? There had to be something else.

  Louis turned to the crime-scene photos, stopping finally with Johnny Lacey’s shotgun-shattered face. It was a Xerox but it clearly showed the hole from the shotgun blast. It was centered on Johnny’s left cheekbone, maybe about the diameter of a half-dollar, spreading outward, taking out his left eye and brow. It was also obvious that the shotgun had been fired at very close range, at a slightly upward angle.

  There was another mark, this one barely noticeable, on the right cheek. But was it just a shadow created by the copy machine?

  He pulled out a separate manila envelope, the one Delp had given him. Sifting through the postmortem photographs, he found a close-up of Johnny Lacey’s face. It showed the second mark clearly and it wasn’t a shadow. It was a rectangular bruise, about an inch-and-a-half long with two short, parallel lines.

  Louis fished through the papers on the bed and found the autopsy report, looking for an explanation for the bruise. There was nothing.

  He picked up the autopsy photo again, staring at the strange bruise. Its shape was too perfect, too regular, too familiar. Suddenly, he knew what had caused it. It was from the cylinder of a handgun.

  His mouth went dry as he slowly realized what had happened. Jesse had beaten Johnny Lacey to death. Jesse could not have been holding a shotgun in his right hand, as the reports said, because he had been holding his handgun, the gun he used to beat Johnny to death. The shotgun blast had come later, after Johnny Lacey was dead. Someone had blasted off Johnny Lacey’s face in an attempt to hide evidence of the beating.

  Louis picked up the autopsy report again. The cause of death was listed only as “accidental shotgun wound to the left orbital area.” There was no mention of any other injuries. Louis stared at the name on the form. Merlin Boggs, M.D.

  Suddenly, the pieces were falling into place. This had to be what Gibralter did not want Steele to see. Jesse had beat Johnny Lacey to death and they had covered it up. They got a gullible local doctor to do the postmortem and a small-town reporter to take the crime-scene photos. They kept it in the family, led by Gibralter who believed that loyalty was more important than anything, even the life of a teenage kid.

  “Goddammit,” Louis said softly.

  He stared at the papers spread over his bed. What was he going to do now? Turn it over to Steele? If this could be proven, Jesse and Gibralter could end up facing conspiracy or even manslaughter charges. But did he really have enough evidence?

  He slowly shook his head. After what happened today he had no credibility with Steele. If he went to him with only a photograph and his suspicions Steele would kiss him off for good. He needed hardcore proof.

  He started to gather up the papers and photographs off the bed but then stopped. Someone was knocking on the door.

  Jesse? God, he couldn’t look him in the eye, not now.

  The knock came again. Louis went to the front door.

  “Louis?”

  It was Zoe.

  “Louis? Are you there?”

  He waited, hoping she would leave. He hadn’t seen her since the night Ollie was murdered. He had awakened sometime before dawn, alone on the sofa, and they hadn’t spoken since. Several times he had dialed Gibralter’s home only to hang up when he heard her answer.

  “Louis?”

  He flipped on the porch light and opened the door. She stood, looking up at him. There were things he wanted to say, questions he needed answered. Instead, he turned away, going into the living room.

  “It’s freezing in here,” she said softly, pulling off her jacket and red wool hat.

  Louis knelt to toss two logs in the grate. It wasn’t until the fire was burning that he finally turned to face her.

  “Louis, what’s the matter?” she asked. When he said nothing, she came to him, her hand raised to touch his face. He jerked back.

  “Don’t,” he said. He moved away, going into the bar.

  “Louis, what is the matter?” she asked again.

  “You lied to me,” he said.

  She didn’t move. When she didn’t say anything, he turned and faced her. “You lied to me,” he repeated.

  She stared at him then slowly her face crumpled. She went to the sofa, sitting on its edge.

  “You’re married,” he said. “When were you going to tell me that?”

  “Tonight. I…Louis, please — ”

  “Right.”

  She looked away, holding her arms.

  “He’s my chief, for crissake!” Louis said.

  She shut her eyes, as if trying not to cry, and he turned away in anger. “How could you lie to me?” he demanded.

  “I didn’t lie.”

  He came forward to stand in front of her. “You lied about him, Zoe. Shit, that isn’t even your name. You lied about who you are, for God’s sake.”

  Her eyes glistened up at him. She didn’t say it but he saw it there in her eyes. So did you.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “You know.”

  She met his eyes. “I can give you all the cliches, Louis. I can say my marriage was over years ago. I can say he’s changed, I changed. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “I don’t know what I want,” he said, shaking his head.

  “This isn’t easy,” she said sharply.

&nb
sp; Her anger was unexpected. It deflated his own somehow. He moved to the window, not wanting to look at her. “Do you love him?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I did. I don’t know anymore.”

  He leaned his forehead against the cold glass.

  “I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a long time. Part of it is this place but it’s more, it’s…” Her voice trailed off, breaking slightly.

  He didn’t want to hear it. An affair, a neglected wife, it was a damn cliche and he didn’t want to be part of it.

  “All right, so the marriage failed,” he said. “Lots of marriages fail. But I don’t get it. The fake name, the cabin. What the hell was that? Do you take other guys there too?

  “No. You’re the only one.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He got me the cabin about two years ago. I wanted to have a place to go. He had work and I wanted something of my own. I started painting there, something I hadn’t done in ten years. I found two kittens living in the crawl space so I kept them there, because Brian hates cats.”

  Louis thought of the sensual cabin, with its draperies, music, pillows, candles and incense. He couldn’t see Gibralter tolerating any of it.

  “What about your name?”

  “I read it in a novel once and I always wanted to go to France. I never used it before that night by the lake when I saw you. It just…came out.”

  Her voice had trailed off to a whisper. “I always hated the name Jean. I never felt like a Jean.”

  Louis came back to stand near the fireplace, looking down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?” he asked.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him. “It must be comforting to have such a reliable moral compass.”

  He couldn’t tell if she meant it to be sarcastic. “You could have left him,” he said.

  “We’ve been together since I was nineteen. We had…” She paused. “He needed me.”

  “I can’t see him needing anyone,” Louis said.

  “He wasn’t always like this,” she said. “In the beginning, back in Chicago, it was different.”

  Louis looked away. He didn’t want to hear about the joys of Brian Gibralter’s young married life. She saw Louis’s reaction but went on.

  “When Brian was a rookie, he used to come home at night so excited about the job, so sure he was doing good,” she said, her eyes going to the fire. “But he got transferred to Englewood and things changed. He started talking about the bad things, the junkies, the thirteen-year-old hookers, the man who pulled a knife on him after he pulled him over for a broken tail light.” She paused. “One night, I found him sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, still in his jacket. I finally got him to tell me what it was. He had arrested a man who had bashed in the head of his girlfriend’s baby with a baseball bat because the baby wet his pants.”

  Louis didn’t respond.

  “He stopped talking to me about work after that. He said I couldn’t understand,” she said.

  Louis thought of the night Ollie died. Even as she had held him while he cried, he had thought the same thing.

  “I didn’t fit in with the other wives and I was very lonely,” she said. “I started taking the el downtown for classes at the Art Institute but Brian made me stop. He said I’d get raped or mugged.”

  He heard her voice break. Her face was streaked with tears.

  “It got worse,” she said. “He yelled at me for not locking the door when I went down to the laundry room. He yelled at me for not ironing the crease sharp enough in his uniform pants.”

  “You should have left him,” he said.

  She looked at Louis. “I wanted to but I had no way to support myself, no job. I didn’t even have a high school diploma.” She gave a small laugh. “I needed him.”

  “I thought you had a sister,” Louis said.

  She nodded. “She told me I could come stay with her. I even had a suitcase packed but then something happened and I couldn’t leave.”

  “What?”

  She looked at him warily.

  “What happened?”

  “Brian,” she said. “Something happened to him and I couldn’t leave him.”

  He could see something in her face, pain, guilt maybe, and he knew she had to be referring to the incident that Gibralter’s department had covered up, the event that Doug Delp had been unable to unearth. He waited, tense. A part of him, the man who had been deceived, didn’t want to hear one more damn word about Brian Gibralter. But the other part of him, the cop part, needed to know.

  He sat down next to her. “What happened?”

  She pulled in a breath, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

  Louis went to get her a Kleenex. He sat down again, waiting. “What happened?” he repeated.

  She was unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t find out until weeks later. He wouldn’t tell me. He had been to a doctor, someone the department made him see. I think the doctor was the one who told him to tell me.”

  Louis waited. The wind picked up outside, sending a low whistle through the windowpanes.

  “He was on patrol alone because his partner was out sick. It was March. I remember because it was very cold for March.” Her voice dropped to a soft monotone. “He turned into an alley, thinking he had seen something suspicious. They had been watching the neighborhood because there was a lot of gang violence. He should’ve called for help but he didn’t.”

  Louis suddenly knew where this was going. What he didn’t know was how bad it would be.

  “They…a gang…they jumped him. He was alone and they jumped him. They took his gun.”

  Louis shook his head.

  “Then…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “They held his gun on him and made him undress. They stripped him. It was so cold that night. But they left him there, naked.”

  It took her almost a full minute before she was able to speak. “They handcuffed him to a fire escape in the alley and beat him. Then they spray painted…things, words, things all over his body.”

  She took a breath and the rest rushed out in one long sigh. “He was there for hours before another unit came by and found him.”

  “What happened to the kids?” Louis asked.

  “Kids?” She seemed bewildered. “The gang?” He didn’t want them prosecuted because then he would have had to tell the whole department what had happened. The cop who picked him up and one or two others, including his captain, were the only ones who knew.”

  Louis remembered what Delp had told him, the drug bust for the gang members that came out of nowhere.

  She had stopped crying. She was just sitting there, staring vacantly at some point over Louis’s shoulder, as if she didn’t even know he was there anymore. When she focused back on his face, there was a naked look in her eyes, as if what she had just told him was about her, not her husband.

  For several minutes they just sat. He listened to the wind pound the glass and the crackling of the fire. Her soft voice interrupted the silence.

  “We came here about a year later. He didn’t even tell me about the ad in Police Chief magazine. He just told me we were going, that he could start over, build his kind of department.”

  Louis leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes.

  “I thought things would change,” she said softly, “but they didn’t. I didn’t fit in here either.”

  He knew she was talking about being black, or half-black half-Asian. Loon Lake wasn’t like some backwater boonie in the South but it was undeniably white. White in its racial makeup and white-bread in its small-town mind-set. He had come to feel like an outsider in the short time he had been here. He could only guess how a lonely woman like Jean Gibralter could survive.

  He moved to hold her, to comfort her the way she had him, but he stopped. There was no future for them. He knew that now, even if he hadn’t been so sure an hour ago. His anger toward her had dissipated but he knew he wasn’t beyon
d judging. Even after this ugly mess was over if she decided to leave her husband, he was not sure he could give his heart to her again. He wasn’t sure he could trust her again.

  “I think I’d better go,” she said, rising.

  She went quickly to the door, putting on her coat. He rose and watched as she pulled on her gloves. She looked up.

  “I’m sorry, Louis. I’m sorry I lied to you,” she said.

  The door opened, a flurry of snow blew in and she was gone.

  CHAPTER 33

  Louis swung the Mustang around a turn and up the hill. The bald tires spun on the snowy road but finally caught hold. The car moved slowly up through the pines.

  A small sign marked the entrance to the driveway — LITTLE EDEN — and the pines parted to reveal a clearing with a large log cabin in the center.

  Louis pulled up in front and cut the engine. He frowned, seeing the smoke curling from the chimney and the shiny white Ford Bronco parked at the side. He picked up the raid file from the passenger seat and searched for the owner’s name. Eden, David and Glenda. Damn, they were here now? He hadn’t counted on having to deal with anyone.

  He had decided to come to the cabin only that morning, not telling anyone at the station. It had been an impulse, partly to get Zoe out of his head, but mainly because he was hoping to find something to back up his suspicions before he went to Steele. But as his eyes traveled over the cabin he knew he had no idea what he was looking for.

  The front door opened and a man stood behind the storm door, staring at the Mustang. Louis got out and started up the shoveled walk. The man didn’t seem to relax any seeing Louis’s uniform.

  “Mr. Eden?” Louis asked.

  He cracked open the door. “Yes?”

  Louis held out a hand. “Officer Kincaid, Loon Lake police.”

  The man shook his hand tepidly. He was about fifty, balding, beefy, and swathed in a red sweater with reindeers prancing across his chest. He had the buffed-pink look of a successful middle-aged man, buttressed by his wealth and unaccustomed to such sordid things as visits from cops. Louis remembered reading the Edens were from Dearborn, the man a management type with Ford. He wondered why he hadn’t sold the cabin after the raid.