Ice (A Chris Matheson Cold Case Mystery Book 1)

by Lauren Carr

  She’s kind of old to be getting into fights.

  The first woman wailed about being the victim of an assault while demanding that everyone stay to act as witnesses in her lawsuit for pain and suffering.

  At once, people scattered.

  Chris tucked the box of pancake mix, wrapped in the store’s plastic bag, under his arm and picked up the gallon jug to head home.

  Outside, he made his way down the aisle toward his mother’s sedan. He recognized the woman from the fight several feet ahead of him. The suitcase of beer hung at the end of her arm. Her coat slipped to expose one shoulder.

  A dark van approached from the opposite end of the parking lot to catch her in its headlights.

  Chris heard the swish of a van’s side doors opening. While the vehicle quietly cruised toward them, he recognized the silhouette of an assault rifle’s muzzle aimed out of the open door.

  Chris’s heart leapt up into his throat to gag him so that he had to force out the word. “Gun!”

  He dropped the jug. Milk splattered onto his pant leg before Chris dove for the grassy plot of earth between two rows of parking.

  The patter of automatic gun fire was drowned out by the woman’s anguished screams as a barrage of bullets ripped through her body. The van’s driver gunned the engine. At the end of the row, he spun the van around to make a U-turn and raced down the next aisle.

  Chris yanked his gun out of his pocket and sprinted toward the far end of the parking lot. By the time the van was gunning for the exit, Chris stepped directly into its headlight beams. He raised the gun and aimed it at the van’s windshield.

  Amused by Chris’s display of bravery, the driver pressed the gas pedal to the floor. It didn’t matter to them if he was too foolish to get out of their way. They had proven they weren’t shy about taking a life.

  With the van firing at him like a four-ton bullet, Chris pulled the trigger of his gun again and again—aiming for the dark figure behind the steering wheel. If he was lucky, he’d hit the shooter in the back as well.

  In a matter of seconds, his semi-automatic was out of bullets.

  Chris stepped to one side.

  The van swerved past him. Hitting a patch of ice, it spun from one side of the lane to the other. At the end of the lot, it mowed down a stop sign and jumped the curb. After plowing through an old jeep, the van rolling over onto its roof and skidded several yards before coming to a halt.

  The sparks of the metal ignited gasoline spilling from the van’s gas tank, which had been punctured by the pole from the sign. The van exploded—lighting up the dark parking lot with brilliant orange flames.

  Stunned, Chris watched the black smoke billowing up into the night sky as a sheriff deputy’s police cruiser, with its blue lights flashing, arrived on the scene. Upon seeing a vehicular bonfire and a lone man holding a handgun, the deputy screeched to a halt.

  His partner spilled out of the passenger side and crouched behind the open door with her weapon drawn. “Drop the gun! Now!”

  There was no point in arguing. What were they to do? They answered a simple assault call and arrived to discover a van engulfed in flames, a bullet riddled body, and a guy with a gun.

  Wordlessly, Chris held out his arms with his hands and fingers spread out. He allowed the semi-automatic to dangle from his index finger. Slowly, he eased toward the ground and dropped his weapon onto the pavement. As he got on his knees, he placed his hands on top of his head and laced his fingers together.

  While her partner called into dispatch for assistance, the deputy hurried over to pat him down for more weapons.

  “I have a backup weapon in a holster on my left ankle,” Chris told her.

  “You sound like you’re no stranger to this drill.” She lifted his pant leg to remove the thirty-two caliber semi-automatic.

  “Been through this several times.”

  Chapter Six

  It wasn’t the first time Chris found himself in the back of a police cruiser.

  As always, the seat was extremely uncomfortable—especially sitting with his hands cuffed behind his back. The rear seats of cruisers were hard and cramped for a reason. Why should criminals be content?

  Chris’s retired federal agent identification was insufficient for gaining the deputies’ trust. After all, he admitted to shooting at the two people who died in the van.

  Unfortunately, there were no witnesses to back up Chris’s account of the men in the van gunning down the woman whose bloody body they had found on the other side of the parking lot. He prayed that the store’s security cameras were working. He wasn’t going to bet on it.

  Until they had the facts, the sheriff deputies weren’t taking any chances. They called in their supervisor. Until he arrived, they shoved Chris into the back seat of the cruiser with his hands cuffed.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He assumed it was his mother wondering where he was with the milk and pancake mix. Unable to respond to her queries, coming every few minutes, Chris rolled his eyes.

  Oh, no! He remembered the milk he had dropped after seeing the muzzle of the rifle. He searched his memory to figure out what had happened to the pancake mix. He had had the box wrapped up in the plastic bag and tucked under his arm. I must have dropped that when I hit the ground. He sat up in the seat and craned his neck to see if he could spot the bag where he had dropped it.

  The rear door of the cruiser flew open.

  “Chris Matheson, I never expected to find you cuffed in the back of one of my cruisers.” The sandy-haired deputy chuckled at him while a gust of wind reached in to slap Chris across the face.

  “Son of a bitch,” Chris muttered before forcing a smile onto his lips. “Rodney Bell. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m the deputy sheriff.” Rodney tapped the gold police shield displayed on the breast of his winter coat. He glanced around the inside of the cruiser. “How do you like it sitting back here?”

  In spite of his leg cramps, Chris shrugged his shoulders. “At least I’m not working a crime scene in below-zero wind chill.”

  “Oh, but I have a feeling things are going to get real hot, real soon.” Rodney winked at him.

  Rodney’s wink annoyed Chris as much as it did when they had been teenagers. “Don’t count on it. Did you talk to any of the witnesses?”

  “Ain’t none. The few who stuck around after bullets started flying say they were inside watching some pregnant girl screaming bloody murder about being assaulted. That’s the incident my uniforms had been sent out to take a report on.”

  “The assault was over by then. I saw it. As a matter of fact, the gunshot victim was one of the women in the cat fight.” Chris let out an exasperated breath. “Are the security cameras working?”

  “We’ll be checking them out.” Rodney stuck the end of a toothpick in his mouth—a trait Chris didn’t recall from their youth. “Even if everything went down the way you say, there’s still a problem.”

  “What?”

  A slim grin crossed Rodney’s face. He was enjoying the moment way too much. “The old woman who the two crispy critters in the van allegedly shot?” He paused to squint at him. “You ever seen her before?”

  Chris started to say he hadn’t but then remembered that her voice was familiar. “I’ve been gone for twenty-four years, Rod. I may have known her from back when we were kids.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m sure you did,” Rodney said. “She was Ethel Lipton, Sandy’s mom. You remember Sandy, don’t you?” He chuckled again. “The underage girl you knocked—”

  “I did not knock her up, Rodney, and you know that.”

  “Not really, Chris. Sure, you were always the one every momma hoped their little girl ended up with. The boy scout. But then, when you wanted something—”

  “Do you seriously want to go there, Rodney?” Chris jerked his chin in the direction of the v
an that the firefighters were still working to put out. “Your deputies took my gun into evidence. Once ballistics compares my spent cartridges from those of their assault rifle, then that will prove I didn’t shoot Ethel Lipton.”

  “You may not have pulled the trigger that killed her, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t behind the shooting. The van was reported stolen an hour ago from a hang out in Martinsburg. Loco Lucy’s. Extremely popular with the drug crowd. We’ve had two other hits go down the same way in the last six months. Detectives suspect a couple fringe members of this gang have been earning extra bucks by whacking folks for hire.”

  “So you suspect me of hiring them to kill Ethel Lipton, while I was on the scene, and then took them out so they couldn’t talk. Wouldn’t my being at the crime scene at the time of the hit defeat the purpose?”

  “That’s what you want me to think. We go too far back, Chris. I know how your mind works.”

  “After not seeing Ethel Lipton for over twenty years, why would I risk everything by having her taken out?”

  “Because she came to me today saying that she had information on a murder. You being here when she was shut up permanently?” With a chuckle, Rodney winked at him again. “That’s just too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

  The ice storm had begun.

  At least it was warmer in the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department interrogation room. By the time the deputies had transported Chris to the station for further questioning, everything was coated in a sheet of ice. Even with his coat on, Chris fought to keep from shivering. He refused to give Rodney the pleasure of seeing him tremble and assume it was out of fear.

  He traded the pain in his legs for arm cramps. Not taking any chances, the deputies handcuffed Chris to a hook in the center of the table. For an hour, he waited alone for someone to take his statement.

  Rodney Bell was playing with him. The deputy sheriff studied him through the two-way mirror—waiting for Chris to become anxious. It would be easier for Rodney to push his buttons during the interrogation once he was on edge.

  Having been former best friends, Rodney knew which buttons to push.

  That was a two-way street.

  Abruptly, the door flew open and Rodney rushed in with a folder in his hand. The cockiness in his grin annoyed Chris.

  After slipping into the chair across from him, Rodney opened the file and slid Chris’s identification and concealed carry permit across the table. “Why do you carry multiple concealed weapons, Matheson?”

  “I’m a retired federal investigator.” It was Chris’s turn to grin. “But then you know that, Bell. We put in our application to the FBI together. They selected me, but not you.”

  Rodney’s eyes narrowed to a glare. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I spent over ten years working undercover. Several people would not only like to see me dead, but they’d have no problem trying to make it happen—including a couple of drug cartels.” Chris leaned across the table. “So, the last place that I’d go would be a drug dealers’ hang out like Loco Lucy’s.”

  Rodney’s mouth dropped open slightly.

  “As a matter of fact,” Chris said, “when I saw the muzzle of that assault rifle, I assumed I was the target. Maybe someone from one of my operations recognized me. Started tailing me. Saw an opportunity in a dark parking lot and decided to take a shot.”

  “And Ethel Lipton, who just today asked for a deal in exchange for information on a murder, simply got caught in a crossfire?” With a shake of his head, Rod stuck a toothpick in between his teeth. “I’m not buying it.”

  “If Lipton had information on her daughter’s disappearance from twenty-four years ago, why would she be in here today looking for a deal?” Chris asked. “If one of my daughters disappeared, and I got info, I’d be giving it to whoever’d take it—not dealing it.” He shook his head. “What did she need a deal for?”

  “She got her fifth DUI day before yesterday,” Rodney said. “Nine o’clock in the morning, she ran a red light and had a head-on collision with an SUV out by the country club.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Driver of the SUV got six broken ribs, a punctured lung, a fractured arm and leg. Could have been worse. Ethel was on her way home from the casino. She practically lives out there. The Stardust paid her one and a half million dollars for her apartment complex and greasy spoon to build their parking garage. She used the dough to buy a big house out by the country club. But that was over two decades ago. She’s been spending all her waking hours drinking and gambling at the Stardust ever since the casino opened.”

  “Even one and a half million dollars isn’t going to last that long if you don’t have any money coming in,” Chris said.

  “Maybe Carson has been supporting her,” said Rodney. “He’s the head chef at their fancy restaurant.”

  “Head chef? Sounds like Carson has done pretty good for himself.”

  “Studied up in New York. Went from the culinary institute to the Stardust after graduating.”

  “That could have been part of the deal to get the Liptons to sell. Nah…” Chris’s voice trailed off.

  “What?” Rodney’s lip curled. The toothpick wiggled in the corner of his mouth.

  “Ethel treated him like garbage. He wanted to leave, but every time he’d save up money, she’d manage to get ahold of it and blow it at the track or on drugs.” He shook his head. “He’d never support her. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised he came back here. If he was halfway good—”

  “He is,” Rodney said. “People come from miles away just to eat at the Stardust’s restaurant. It’s five-stars. Have you eaten there?”

  “No, I’ve been too busy to get dressed up for fine dining.” Chris said, “So Ethel Lipton got her fifth DUI and almost killed a guy…”

  “The driver of the SUV is talking about suing everybody—especially after he got wind that Ethel was coming home from the Stardust—who’s got the deepest pockets in town,” Rodney said. “The casino manager swears that he poured her into the back seat of one of their limos and had a driver take her home after he saw that she was trashed. He said that was eleven-thirty in the evening. The driver said she was passed out, and he carried her into her house—even fished the keys out of her bag to unlock the door. He put her on the sofa and she was sleeping it off when he left.”

  “But where was her car?”

  “At the casino,” Rodney said. “She woke up and had a friend drive her back to get her car.”

  “After having a hair of the dog that bit her.”

  “She blew over the limit after the accident and was arrested on the spot. This being her fifth arrest, the county prosecutor told her lawyer that he was throwing the book at her. They’re going for jail time. After her lawyer told her that, she came to see me and wanted to make a deal.”

  “Immunity on the DUI in exchange for information on a murder.” Chris scoffed. “Rodney, think about it. Do you really believe that if I had been involved in Sandy’s disappearance, and her mother had any proof to pin it on me, that she would’ve kept it to herself?”

  Rodney responded with silence.

  The interrogation room door flew open. The deputy’s eyes were wide when she said. “Bad news, Bell.”

  “Matheson’s lawyer’s here,” the deputy sheriff said with a sigh.

  “Worse. His mother.”

  Rodney’s eyes were as wide as the deputy’s when he looked across the table at him. “You called your mother?”

  Chris grinned.

  “And she brought Sheriff Bassett with her,” the deputy said before running down the hallway to get as far from the imminent battle as possible.

  “I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding, Doris.” Sheriff Grant Bassett held the door open for Doris, clad in a black leather coat, gloves, and tall fashion boots, to step into the room. “We’l
l get everything straightened out and you and Christopher will be on your way ASAP.”

  While Doris appeared polished, Sheriff Bassett’s shirt was wrinkled and haphazardly buttoned. His hair stood straight on end as if he had been in such a hurry that he didn’t bother combing it.

  Rodney jumped out of his chair as if he were greeting the governor. “Ms. Matheson, what a pleasure to see you.”

  “Is it really, Rodney?” With the precision of a leader inspecting her troops, she looked him up and down while removing her leather gloves. “A pleasure to be seeing me, I mean.”

  She shot a glance over to Chris, who was enjoying the beads of sweat forming on Rodney’s forehead. Her gray eyes narrowed upon seeing that Chris was handcuffed to the table. “Are you serious? You have Christopher handcuffed?”

  “Really, Bell? Seriously?” The sheriff hopped toward the table as if to remove the handcuffs himself. “What were you thinking?”

  “Well …” Rodney swallowed.

  “Well what?” Doris demanded an answer.

  “Don’t just stand there, Bell! Uncuff Matheson!” When Rodney didn’t move fast enough, Sheriff Bassett raised his voice. “Now!”

  Rodney spun around to remove the cuffs from Chris’s wrists. Rodney’s fingers trembled so much that he had difficulty getting the key into the lock. Seeing a bead of sweat roll down the side of the deputy sheriff’s face, Chris asked, “Is it just you or is it getting hot in here?”

  Rodney shot a glare into Chris’s eyes before yanking the cuffs from his wrists. “Go home, Matheson.”

  “I’m not finished with you, Rodney,” Doris said. “Would you mind telling me and Sheriff Bassett on what grounds you felt the need to interrogate Christopher?”

  “Ethel Lipton, Sandy Lipton’s mother, was killed at—”

  “And Christopher halted the gunmen’s escape, possibly saving other people’s lives,” Doris said. “So why did your people handcuff him, drag him in here in the back of a police cruiser, and throw him in an interrogation room like a common thug?”