Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (12 page)

Sure enough, it wasn’t much as evidence of any kind, incriminating or otherwise. A wadded-up wrapper from a sandwich, an apple core, and two light beer cans, one empty and one full and not opened.

And all the while, Ellie watched him, thinking … thinking …

It would take a very scary kind of person to sit anywhere close to the body in that boathouse and calmly eat anything. Was Bryce Grantham that ice cold and frightening? Maybe, if he was involved. He looked suitably upset, and had confessed to not wanting to call in his gruesome find, but on the other hand, maybe they were playing some kind of macabre game.

If so, he was good at it. The chill that touched her wasn’t just from the lowering dusk.

“How long have you been out here?” Rick asked.

Grantham rubbed his forehead and exhaled. “I drove out early afternoon. I was fishing quite a bit down the shore from here for most of the time. When the sun started to set, I decided to move here because it was getting cold under the trees. Like I told the detective, I couldn’t help but notice the smell right away.”

“So you looked in the boathouse?”

“I didn’t see anything anywhere else and decided it was coming from the boathouse, yes. It struck me as a strange place for an animal to die. Wouldn’t
you
look?”

Rick zipped the case back up. “Probably,” he conceded. “It isn’t hard to tell where it is coming from. But did you know what you’d find?”

Grantham didn’t misunderstand the implication. He looked back steadily, his fine-boned face set. “Did I know before I came here fishing? No. Did I get a bad feeling when I realized something was dead nearby? Can you imagine? I hoped it was a deer. It’s bow season for whitetails. I thought at first maybe one had gotten away and died close by to here.”

“I suppose that seems reasonable,” Ellie interjected. Not that Rick wasn’t right to ask probing questions. The circumstances weren’t just suspicious, which Grantham obviously knew, but it was an outright defiance of every perceived probability curve.

But then again, coincidences happened.

Rick dropped the case and didn’t even look her way. “If you think for a minute that you can toy with us, Dr. Grantham, you can’t.”

“Toy with you? What the hell does that mean?”

That was a shade too confrontational. She asked her partner, “What did Pearson say? How long?”

“The cavalry should be here at any time. Wisconsin DCI is going to get sick of hearing from Lincoln County.” Rick looked over the darkened lake and then directed another question—more contained at least—at their companion. “So, who owns this place?”

“Friend of my grandfather. Luke Paris. He’s in a nursing home now, but was always a really nice man. I’ve been coming here fishing for about as long as I can remember. There are some really nice northerns in this lake. I’ve caught several over twenty-eight inches here before.”

“Keep them?”

“No. Catch and return.” The reply was steady. “I’m here for the sport, not food.”

“Who else comes here? Do you know?”

“I doubt it’s used much.” Grantham shook his head. It had grown dark enough that his features were too shadowed to really read his expression. “But I suppose he might let other people he knows fish or swim out here. Since, as you saw, you can’t drive out to it, unless you know the location, you wouldn’t have any idea the lake even exists.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ellie murmured. “After all this time we might actually have a place to start. A nursing home where?”

“I could get you the address tomorrow the same way I got the dates from my planner.” Grantham elevated a brow, his tone ironic. “Any luck with that, by the way? As an interested party, I’m pretty curious to know if you’ve confirmed the information I gave you.”

“We’ll keep you informed,” Ellie said, not answering the question. She turned and forced herself to look at the boathouse again. Dammit if her vivid imagination didn’t conjure up a vision of a figure carrying a body through the woods, probably exactly the way they’d just come. “I think things are about to get interesting.”

That was an understatement. “Is there some reason I need to stay?” Grantham asked. He stood, obviously restless and uncomfortable, visibly irritated with her evasive response. “You’ve both heard my account of what happened and I really don’t want to be here for the rest of all this. You know where to find me if you need any other kind of statement. In fact, I’m going to guess you know more about me than my own mother at this point.”

Ellie glanced over and Rick gave a slight nod of unspoken agreement. They still had no reasonable cause to hold Grantham and he’d been cooperative enough. Rick said with an edge to his voice, “How long are you planning on staying up here, Dr. Grantham?”

“I don’t know. I planned on a couple of weeks, but I think you two can understand if I say this hasn’t been the most stellar vacation of my life.”

“We’d appreciate it if you’d stick around for a few more days at least,” Ellie told him without inflection. “Just in case we have more questions.”

“Are you telling me I can’t leave this county?” He stiffened.

“Asking,” she responded. “At this point, just asking.”

“At this point,” he repeated sardonically. “Thanks.”

“Look, Dr. Grantham, I’m sorry you’re part of this, but when you found Melissa Simmons’ blood and her shoes, I’m afraid you—”

“I get it.” Bryce Grantham seemed to collect himself. “Staying not a part of this is high on my priority list, but could it count to my credit that I couldn’t in good conscience not call you about what I found this afternoon? That said, can I go?”

Ellie nodded. She watched him walk away, and then turned back as his tall form disappeared in the now hovering dark under the trees. Tightly, she asked, “What do you think, Rick?”

“I think this takes the definition of chance to the next level. But I also can’t see why he’d call us again if he had anything to do with all of this. It’s been a year and a half since Julia Becraft turned up missing. If he had an agenda over the bodies being found, why would he wait all this time and then start leading us now? I admit I don’t understand where he fits into all of this, but maybe he
is
just a guy having a really bad vacation.”

“I don’t know.” Ellie chewed her lower lip and then shoved at a lock of hair blowing across her cheek. It was hard to tell if she was physically cold, or if the situation was getting to her, but she was shivering. She said again, “I just don’t know. I agree, I really don’t get the impression he likes any of this—if he does, he’s fooling me, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Rick said slowly, “but some son of a bitch has been fooling us for over a year now, so let’s keep that in mind.”

Chapter 9

He didn’t run on a regular cycle. It built and it receded and the ebb was often erratic. There was power, he knew it, but it was harnessed differently sometimes and when it left him, he felt … unfinished.

Yes, that was it. Unfinished.

When it returned the urge was like a flesh-eating bacteria, relentless, invasive, possessing him until he had no choice.

No choice at all.

*   *   *

Bryce’s cell phone
rang just as he pulled into the winding drive after grabbing dinner in town. Forget the nice steak he had planned, he didn’t have the heart to cook it. He fumbled the phone out of his pocket, saw it was an unidentified number, tried to decide if he was too dispirited to talk to anyone, but answered it anyway. “Hello.”

“This is Ellie MacIntosh.”

Jesus, he was pretty sick of the police right now. Even pretty detectives didn’t hold much appeal. “Yes?” It came out curt and he didn’t even care.

“You left your fishing pole, minnows, and cooler at the scene. I thought I’d drop by and return them. The area will be sealed off for at least two days, I’d guess. Thought you might want to fish somewhere else, so I’d be happy to stop at your cabin.”

“It’s not necessary.” Clipped, short. He just wasn’t in the mood to be pleasant. Though to be honest, she’d been more than decent to him, considering. He knew how bad it looked.

“I agree. Still, the offer stands.”

Come to think of it, he
had
just walked away, but then again, he wasn’t at his finest after becoming involved in a murder investigation, he was discovering. Of course, if the trend continued, maybe he’d get used to it. “That’s nice of you,” he said, not bothering to hide the tiredness in his voice. “I stopped and got something to eat so I’m just pulling up to the cabin now.”

“I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

Ingrained politeness set in. He blamed his mother. “All right. Thanks.”

Bryce closed the phone and pushed it into his pocket. He parked under the trees, the gloom complete, and went down the steps and unlocked the front door, the hinges creaking in a familiar sound as he opened it. The place was dark and cold and smelled of pine resin. He flicked on the lights and then the baseboard heat. He’d brought in logs earlier and went to the woodstove, opened the door, piled in some kindling from an old coal bucket that sat next to the brick platform, and wadded up some newspaper. He lit the paper, closed the door, and adjusted the flue. All methodical, all done automatically.

The windows overlooking the lake were like black mirrors. He saw himself in the reflection. Hair on the unruly side, shadows under his eyes, his mouth a tight thin line. Gaunt was the word that came to mind. Bryce turned away, went into the galley kitchen, and stripped the paper bag off of one of the bottles of wine he’d bought in Tomahawk. He uncorked it, poured a glass, and without letting it breathe took a mouthful. It was on the sharp side, but since he’d had the official afternoon from hell, it was adequate for someone who really just wanted to ease the tension that had begun to make the muscles in his neck ache.

Lights arced against the kitchen window and the sound of car came clearly. He heard the car door slam, but Bryce stayed there, sipping his wine, one hip braced against the counter, until she knocked on the door.

He walked over and opened it. Detective MacIntosh stood there, holding his fishing pole and cooler, like a peace offering. “Hi.”

The front light shone on the highlights in her hair. She wore the same dark coat she had on the first time he’d seen her at Melissa Simmons’ cabin. Other than a touch of mascara to darken her lashes he didn’t think she used cosmetics. Her complexion was natural and clear, lips unadorned, hair simply worn straight in a good cut so it brushed her shoulders. She seemed that type of woman, straightforward and without artifice. Confident she was attractive in a natural way, but not concerned over it.

He liked it. He didn’t want to like her, but he did, which felt a bit strange.

“Thanks,” he said, turning to set his wineglass down on a cabinet so he could take the proffered items. “I’m not sure I’ll use these anymore this trip, but I appreciate it. My foray into hiking and fishing so far haven’t been a resounding success from my point of view.”

“I understand.” Her gaze was direct as always. “But it has helped us out. While Deputy Jones and I waited for the coroner and sheriff, we talked. Can I come in for a minute?”

Bryce had to admit the request surprised him. Cynically, he said, “Are you sure you feel safe?”

“Let’s just say I’m pretty certain you are intelligent enough to realize Rick knows I was going to stop by and return your gear. You’d have to be an idiot to do anything to me and I don’t think you qualify.”

Point taken, though it didn’t necessarily make him feel a lot better about his current position. Bryce opened the door wider and stepped back. “I’m flattered, Detective. Come on in then.”

She walked past him and the sarcasm, into the living room, and took off her coat before selecting the couch and settling down. “This is comfortable. It reminds me of the place my grandparents had up near Woodruff. Knotty pine walls and a mélange of all different kinds of furniture that somehow manages to still look good. Maybe it’s the lived-in feeling I like.”

“I’ve always enjoyed it.” Force of habit—and the fact he held his glass of wine—made him ask, “Would you like a glass of cabernet?”

To his surprise, she nodded. “Yes, thank you. Been a long day.”

Agreed, and admittedly, he was damned curious over what she wanted.

He went into the kitchen, looked in the cabinets, and found a wineglass—it didn’t match his, but then again, nothing in the cabin matched, so what the hell—and poured the wine. Then he wordlessly went over to hand it to her before settling into the wing chair opposite.
Like sharing a meal with the enemy
, he thought as he watched her take a drink. A standoff; an unspoken challenge.

“I’m not much of a connoisseur, but that’s very good.” She took another sip and regarded him over the rim of her glass. In the light from a small table lamp her eyes looked more green than gold.

“Tomahawk isn’t exactly overflowing with high-end liquor stores, but the place near the supermarket had a few decent vintages.”

“There’s a couple of bigger places in Wausau with a good selection. I’ll give you directions if you like.”

How courteous was he required to be? “Look, Detective MacIntosh,” he said deliberately, “that’s nice of you, but I’m sure you didn’t come here to make sure I don’t have to swill inferior wine during my stay.”

“No,” she agreed with a short, rueful laugh. “I want to make sure you understand how any detail, however insignificant it might be to you, could help us.”

“You’ve pointed that out to me before. I have a decent memory. I just don’t know anything else.” His hand tightened on his wineglass.

“Would you mind explaining to me why your wife took out a restraining order against you during the time your divorce was being settled?”

The quiet question took him off guard. He’d forgotten about that, but of course, they’d dig it out. It was dirt, and that’s what they were looking for, after all.

Bryce looked at her, took a drink of wine, and then cleared his throat. “Actually, I do mind. But I’ll explain anyway, since if I don’t, I imagine the topic is going to be brought up again.”