Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (10 page)

Rick let out a snort, and whether it was conscious or not, hiked his gun belt a fraction. His face, usually wearing his easygoing smile, was grim. “Let’s just say if I caught a forty-four incher today, I’d be on my way to the taxidermist in a heartbeat. Kind of been on a dry spell in the fishing department. You see we’re being watched?”

“I saw it.”

“You’d think they’d go ahead and come out to see what we want. I would if a police car pulled into my driveway, but then again, I’m a law-abiding citizen. Guess we’ll have to go bang on the door and look all official.”

“So let’s go,” Ellie said. She had unbuttoned her jacket to make sure she could access her weapon easily. After she read the rap sheet on Keith Walters, it seemed prudent. He might be eight years younger than his brother, but he was packing a lot of experience into a short amount of time on this earth. He’d been arrested for possession of a handgun without a license, breaking and entering, battery, public intoxication, and the rape charge that sent him to prison had involved a fourteen-year-old girl. His juvenile record was sealed, but from her brief conversation with Keith’s parole officer she’d gotten the impression he’d been getting into serious trouble practically since he could walk.

“Normally I’d say ladies first,” Rick told her as he gestured at the rickety steps, “but let me. I’m bigger and he can see my gun.”

She had no problem with it. His sheer bulk was intimidating, though she wasn’t sure of the effect on two hardened men who had served time in prison. In her experience, the ones who walked out tended to leave their humanity behind, if they’d ever had it in the first place. Ellie said dryly, “So you are. Be my guest. Did you think you’d get an argument?”

Rick did an impressive job of pounding on the door when the first knock wasn’t answered. “Keith Walters? Come on, we know someone is at home. We just want to talk to you.”

Whomever it was made them wait, though the shack couldn’t have more than three rooms. The door finally creaked open a suspicious inch. “Yeah?” said a voice with the rasp of a cigarette smoker. “What do you want?”

“You Keith Walters?”

“And you’re asking … why?” The door stayed almost shut. “What the fuck is this about?”

Ellie fished out her identification and hung it right in front of the one eye she could see. “I’m Detective MacIntosh. We’d like to ask you a few questions. If you don’t want us to come in, just step outside. We can talk right here.”

“I haven’t done anything, so no thanks. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Actually,” Rick said conversationally, “if you want us to go away and you haven’t done anything, then just answer a couple of simple questions and we’ll leave. It’s the easiest way. With your experience, Keith, you must know if the police really want to talk to you, we’ll find a way. You got a plate on that truck yet? I didn’t see one.”

It was a good point. Walters said something vicious under his breath and yanked the door open. He stepped out onto the porch and pulled the screen shut behind him. He was unshaven and reeked of tobacco smoke, wearing a dirty pink Grateful Dead T-shirt, stained jeans, and combat boots. His face was angular and gaunt, just like his body, and his hair long, dark, and slicked back. Cracked lips formed a parody of a smile. He had eyes so dark they were almost black, the whites surrounding the irises bloodshot. “I’m out here,” he said with sullen intonation. “So talk.”

He was high, no doubt about it, but that wasn’t why they were there.

“We’re investigating the disappearances of Margaret Wilson and Melissa Simmons,” Ellie said, taking a picture of Margaret from her pocket and holding it up. “Recognize her?”

“Hell no. Came over here to live with my brother only a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know anyone else.”

“What about her?” She showed him the photo Melissa’s parents had given them.

“You deaf? I just said I don’t know anyone here except Reggie.”

“That first woman went missing about two days after your arrival, Keith.” Rick stood there, solid and serious, his face shaded by his hat. “And now another one is missing. The coincidence has us interested.”

“I’ve never seen either one of them.” Walters scratched at his beard and just stared them down.

“Where were you on October 15 anyway?” Ellie put the pictures away. Margaret’s husband said specifically he wanted her photo back and she was careful with it. Melissa’s hysterical parents just wanted their daughter at this point.

And unfortunately, she was starting to think she wouldn’t be able to give them anything but a body. If that.

His boots scraped the grimy boards of the porch. “How would I know? Hanging out, probably. I’d just moved in, like you said.”

Rick glanced at the run-down façade of the house. “Probably a lot of decorating to do, stuff like that, right? Putting up lights for Halloween and getting the candy dish out?”

Walters just looked at him. If the sarcasm had any effect, it didn’t show. Maybe he didn’t even catch it.

“Her husband last talked to her about five o’clock. She said was going to stop by the store for a few things and then she’d be home. That’s the last anyone heard from her. If you could provide us with an accounting of your whereabouts during that time, it would be helpful.” Ellie stared back at the man slouching against the door, wondering if she was talking to a murderer. He sure as hell looked the part more than Bryce Grantham. Walters had a nasty smile and it might be his most endearing quality.

“You want to know how I spend my evenings?” he said insolently, running his gaze up and down whatever he could see of her body despite a coat and blue jeans. “Stop by anytime, Detective. I’ll give you a hands-on demonstration.”

“Forgive me if I pass.” It wasn’t first time she’d been looked at that way, but it still made her skin crawl. “Besides, I’m legal, so from what I hear, too old for you, Walters.”

“Hey, if you’re talkin’ about my conviction, despite what the judge decided about the little bitch I screwed being too young, I was sure as hell not her first.”

Her knee-jerk reaction to that callous statement was almost overwhelming. Ellie actually took a step forward and Rick caught her arm.

She said through her teeth, “Just tell us where you were on October 15 and 25. If we can confirm it, we’ll step out of your life.”

“Until you fuck up again, Walters,” Rick added. “Just an educated guess.”

A bevy of Canada geese flew overhead, honking, low enough the swoosh of their wings was audible. Walters shook his head, greasy black hair moving against his shoulders. “I was here. Watching the tube, hanging out. Reggie has a job in Merrill at a bar. He leaves about three o’clock usually. Today he went in early. I’m sure he’ll be sorry he missed you all.”

They weren’t going to get anything out of him, but Ellie hadn’t expected much either. She gave a disgusted sigh and turned, going down the sagging steps with care, hearing the warped boards creak. Rick followed and they got into the patrol car. She settled against the seat, automatically clicked her seat belt into place, and said, “I wish we had
some
kind of damn evidence.”

“He’s a sleaze and an asshole,” Rick agreed, starting the car. “But then again, I expected him to be one.”

“A smartass, but not smart.” Ellie looked out the passenger window as they backed up, studying the shabby exterior of the house. “Probably not smart enough to be our guy. Margaret Wilson was abducted from her car. Melissa Simmons had to have opened her door for whoever dragged her off. No woman in her right mind would stop her car or open her door for someone who looks like him either. We didn’t find evidence of forced entry in the car or the cabin. It makes him a lot less likely as a suspect.”

“Probably so.” Rick pulled out of the driveway and onto the small county road. “On the other hand, Grantham
is
intelligent, as you said before. More than that, he’s a good-looking guy, dresses nice, and is well spoken.”

All true. Not to mention those dark eyes. She’d never been a big believer in the phrase “bedroom eyes,” but his might just qualify. So far she’d only seen him shaken and defensive, but if he was out to charm, he could probably pull it off. No one expected a monster to look like Bryce Grantham. It was startling to realize she didn’t really either when she should know better. Keith Walters, yes. Grantham, no.

She said slowly, “He has a decent alibi for Margaret’s disappearance. Not rock solid, but he did have lunch with a client around noon according to his day planner and a receipt. If he jumped in his car and drove straight north, he could have conceivably been here around the time her husband last talked to her, but I don’t know how in hell he could have
planned
the abduction. Too many variables like traffic and so on.”

“I’ve never thought it was planned. But I could be wrong. So far I think who we’re looking for just stumbles on the right situation and takes advantage of it. Like Melissa Simmons. If he tampered with her car, he had to have the tools to do it with him.

“And he sure couldn’t count on her deciding to stop for a drink. Their paths just crossed and it was not her lucky day. What about the rest of the dates? How does he check out there?” Rick shot her a sidelong questioning glance.

“Those aren’t quite as solid, but then again, we haven’t pushed it yet. Grantham vacationed up here right before Patricia Wells vanished. Claims he left two days before and went back to Milwaukee. I’m sure his family will confirm he did leave, but there’s nothing to say he didn’t get a motel room for a couple of days and stick around to abduct Wells. As for Becraft, he has the disadvantage of working at home against him, so no one sees him punching a clock, but we don’t have a single shred to actually point a finger at him. Once again, no evidence at all. I’m inclined to look for someone else.”

Rick frowned at the road. “Jesus, we need a break.”

*   *   *

Bryce looped the
strap of the lightweight cooler over one shoulder, picked up the minnow bucket in one hand, his fishing pole in the other, and started across the small meadow. In the summer it was fragrant with wildflowers, all shapes and heights, everything from delicate white tiny blossoms that had bell shapes like lily of the valley, to brilliant scarlet stalks with stiff leaves and bristles so sharp if you brushed it accidentally, you could draw blood. It was a beautiful symphony of color, and all of it punctuated by the low hum of bees at work. They’d come to pick blueberries here when he was a kid, and occasionally black bears ambled out of the nearby woods and he’d find himself bundled back to the car by his mother until the unwanted visitor ate his fill and left.

In late October it was quiet, falling asleep for the winter, plant by plant, brilliance fading to the drab shade of death. Pretty still, with the gentle roll of the little field along the edge of the forest and the sky a deep, perfect blue above, but different. He felt alone as he walked, but in a pleasant way. Autonomous, free, no other human beings in sight, maybe none for miles even, and he had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon but fish, drink a beer or two, and forget the word “stress” even existed.

It was exactly what he came for in the first place.

His boots crunched crisp vegetation as he walked, the only sound other than the birds. The wind was still, and though it was cool and he’d changed his leather jacket for a more practical windbreaker, he was warm with the sun on his back.

The lake was small, maybe twenty acres, but deep and clear. It was surrounded by thick woods and he picked his way over mossy fallen logs and waded through thick piles of fallen leaves. The owner of the property had been a friend of his grandfather, a local businessman who also owned a cabin near theirs on Loon Lake in addition to this property. His family always had free use of it in his memory, though Luke Paris was now in a nursing home in Green Bay, and Bryce had heard his heirs would probably sell both the cabin and this little gem of land. He hadn’t needed the friendly Jack’s help in finding a place to fish.

Maybe he’d offer to buy the property. The idea was appealing. He’d always liked the spot and he’d considered moving north before. Since he worked from home most of the time, it didn’t really matter where he lived, though a convenient airport would be nice and the closest one was a good fifty miles away, maybe even farther than that.

On a day like this, he decided as he eased down the slope to the water, it wasn’t a bad thing to be that far away from the nearest airport.

He found a favorite spot in a small cove, settled on a flat rock, and cast out a minnow on a bobber. The squirrels were busy scampering through the trees and rustling the few leaves left, and the gleam of the water made little sparkles where the sun hit it as a stray breeze ruffled the water. It was idyllic and he needed a good dose of that, Bryce decided after a few hours. He wasn’t catching anything though, so he decided to change spots, picking up his gear. He’d had one strike the whole time.

A few hundred feet down was a sandy little beach, and the remnants of what had once been a boathouse was there, the little building listing just slightly to the side. The pitched roof was partially caved in, the walls so weathered it was hard to tell it had once been painted a light blue. Luke had long ago ceased to bring out a boat and leave it during the summer. Bryce half slid, half walked down the wooded slope toward the new spot. There was still a decrepit dock of sorts, framed in the late afternoon sun, the gaps in the boards like broken teeth.

He was about thirty feet away when he noticed the smell.

Faint. A whisper at first. The vaguest hint of decay: noxious but not overwhelming. It blended with the odor of decomposing leaves and water, but was something else, something different and unpleasant. Dead deer, he wondered, glancing around. It happened. One got hurt; hit by a car but not killed on the spot and it wandered off to die somewhere else. His goal was the small sandy beach by the boathouse. Once upon a time it was used for swimming, cleared and smooth for about six feet, and Bryce could put his camp stool there and sit in the remnants of the afternoon sun. It was growing cool under the trees.