Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (13 page)

She just lifted her brows. Nice eyebrows, arched, well shaped, a darker shade than her hair. Were the circumstances different, Bryce thought that he’d enjoy a glass of wine with Ellie MacIntosh. He liked confident, intelligent women and she was pretty in a way that appealed to him: good fine bones, a trim figure, striking eyes.

But the circumstances were about as unromantic as it could get, and rehashing his nasty divorce wasn’t high on his list of things to talk about. Bryce sighed and rubbed his jaw. “Fine. My ex-wife is an attorney. I am sure it doesn’t surprise you to discover she tried to make me look as bad as possible in front of the judge, but she did have a legitimate reason for the restraining order, or at least it was justified in her mind. I’d moved out but I still had keys to the house. One day I went home to get more clothes, and she was there. Not alone, if you get my drift, Detective. Suffice it to say I wasn’t exactly surprised, but walking in on your wife and her lover in your bed isn’t a whole lot of fun.”

The woman across from him murmured, “I’m not going to argue that point. Anger would be a natural reaction.”

“I wasn’t angry,” he said in a level voice. “I was the one who suggested we separate, and I was the one who moved out because I was sure she was having an affair. It was confirmation I was doing the right thing. I didn’t even say a word. I just left. Suzanne was the one who was furious, probably because she’d been lying all along about cheating and now I had proof. The next thing I know is I’m being served with a restraining order. I don’t even remember the reason she listed, but I’d never threatened her in any way. Quite frankly, no one wanted more than me to not be given a repeat performance, so the order was unnecessary. Our marriage had failed, but call me old-fashioned, at the time, she was still my wife. Through my lawyer I had a moving company come and remove my personal belongings.”

“If we asked her, would she confirm this, do you think?”

Bryce settled back more in his chair, lightly swirling the remainder of his wine. He hesitated, thinking about some of Suzanne’s more vindictive demands as they tried to sort everything out. “I can’t think of a reason why she’d lie about it, but I’m not going to stake anything on her good behavior either. We aren’t friends. My lawyer, on the other hand, could confirm I told him just what I told you.”

“I doubt it will really be necessary but we’ll get his name if we need it.” She stared at the glass in her hand for a moment and then lifted her gaze. “I believe you about the restraining order. I believe most of what you’ve told us so far, in fact. But I’ll be truthful, Dr. Grantham, your involvement in this case bothers me.”

*   *   *

Why the hell
had she asked to come in? Even as she sipped her wine her palms were just slightly damp. This was taking a chance.

It wasn’t how she usually handled an investigation. Even she wasn’t sure why she’d decided to do this.

Or maybe that wasn’t quite accurate. She found him
interesting
.

“It bothers me also,” her host said, his voice holding an edge.

She’d fibbed too, not usual for her. Rick had no idea she’d decided to drop by Grantham’s cabin to ostensibly return his expensive rod and reel. He would never have agreed it was a good idea. True, her point was valid and if anything happened to her they would crawl all over Grantham with a microscope, but she still might just be gambling on an entity she didn’t entirely understand.

The evidence was so circumstantial it was like standing in quicksand, but it was there, nonetheless, shifting under her feet.

He didn’t really have a solid alibi for the disappearances. In fact, by his own account of what happened, he’d been the last person to see Simmons. If he was lying about the restraining order, he had a predisposition toward at least making his wife think he was capable of violence.

Pretty flimsy stuff.

Except he’d found evidence in two different homicides in four days, one of them a body.

He sat across from her, long legs extended in a pose that suggested nonchalance, but she wasn’t fooled. Dark curls brushed the collar of his shirt and the slightly rumpled look suited him almost too well, the line of jaw and mouth clean and masculine, and his dark eyes were steady. Ellie wondered obliquely why any woman would cheat on a man who looked like he did, especially since he was also obviously successful and seemed to be nice enough otherwise. She could tell he hadn’t been thrilled with her arrival on his doorstep, but he’d still invited her in and offered her a glass of wine.

Murderer?

She didn’t
think
so. But then again, it wasn’t like she was an FBI profiler either. Other than a book or two she’d read on the subject, she wasn’t too well versed in the psychological aspect of why killers behaved in the way they did. She dealt with the results of their actions. Bodies, forensic evidence, opportunity, timetables, and witnesses. They didn’t have much of any of that so far, but the autopsy on Margaret Wilson would hopefully provide some clues.

“What don’t you believe?” The question was said quietly. The stemmed glass dangled in his long fingers. Soft lamplight lent shadows from his lashes on his cheekbones. The cabin smelled comfortably of wood smoke and old coffee.

“What?”

“You said you believe
most
of what I’ve told you. What is it you don’t believe?”

Fair enough. She didn’t mind clarifying if it would make him explain a few things, though his question escalated the tension between them a little. “I think it is odd you decided to pick up a girl in a tavern. It seems out of character to me.”

“But then, you don’t really know me, do you?”

“No.”

Was he challenging her? She couldn’t tell.

“For the record, I didn’t ‘pick her up.’ I bought her a drink and we shared a pizza. Not at all the same, is it?”

“And took her home. And now she’s missing.”

His face tightened. “I’m aware of that, and as sorry as anyone at the idea something might have happened to her.”

Might have? An understatement. The blood, the shoes left in two different places, the fact they’d combed the woods with no success … and no one had heard from her since. Might have was a probably.

Ellie went on, thinking out loud. There was no harm in letting him understand his current position. “This afternoon is different. You went fishing on the property of a friend, a place where you’d been before. That’s logical. It’s a pleasant spot, you don’t really need a boat on a little lake like that one, and you’ve caught some nice fish there before. If you’d found Margaret Wilson first, I don’t think we’d even look at you.”

“Good to know. The next time I embark on a spree of discovering dead bodies, I’ll try and do it in the right order.”

His caustic tone wasn’t a surprise. Ellie sipped her wine and watched him. “Come on, Dr. Grantham, you are an intelligent man. I’m sure you see our side of this. We’d hardly be doing our jobs if we didn’t ask the question: Is he finding crime scene evidence or leading us to it because he knows where it is already?”

“If you think it is the latter, then what are you doing here alone with me?”

It wasn’t how she’d expected him to react. She expected more of a denial, laced with outrage, which if he was innocent, would be natural. But then again, it would be natural too, if he was guilty, because he’d want her to think he was offended. There was speculation in his dark eyes, as if gauging her reaction to the suggestion she might be in danger.

Why am I being drawn into this?

The head game aspect of it was unsettling. “I don’t really think you’re who we’re looking for.” She added before he could respond, “But you’re part of the equation somehow.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured and finished his wine.

Hers was gone now too and Ellie set her empty glass on the coffee table. The piece of furniture was made out of what looked like was part of an old door, cut down to size and painted white, the two base crates painted to match, the sides removed so they were open and held stacks of colorful magazines. A model sailboat in a bottle sat as decoration on one end, and a small piece of pottery with an Indian design rested on the other. The place really did remind her of her grandparents’ cabin, everything used, weathered, mellowed.

She stood and reached for her coat. “Thank you.”

Immediately he got to his feet as well. “Not at all. Thank you for bringing back my gear. It’s really dark under the trees. I’ll hit the floodlight.”

He was right, it was black outside until he flipped a switch and a halogen light at the pitch of the roof illuminated the area the Granthams used to park their vehicles. Hers was cold as she got in, and Ellie pulled a pair of gloves from her pocket and slipped them on before pulling out of the driveway.

Cold night. It was just going to get colder. Usually they’d had more snow by now.

There were still three bodies somewhere. If they didn’t find them soon, it would probably be spring before they had another chance.

The woods surrounded her, quiet, waiting, holding their secrets.

She shivered.

Chapter 10

He’d never liked to share. A personal flaw maybe, but it was what it was. If something belonged to him he kept it. The Hunter was not a giver but a taker.

This was different though, and it confused him. He rolled over and stared at the wall, thinking hard. Nature taught you things. Some of the lessons were painful, some beautiful, some were even terrifying.

Which one was this?

So now they had one of his girls. He could replace her, of course, and the police could consider themselves responsible for it.

It was going to be interesting to see what happened next.

*   *   *

The alarm rang
and Rick rolled over, hit the button, and did his best to blink awake. Jane gave a low groan and asked, “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.” He sat up on the edge of the bed wearing only a pair of boxers, and tried to clear his head from a hard sleep he’d sorely needed. “I’m going to escort the body to Fond du Lac once the crime scene guys clear it for her to be moved.”

“Sounds lovely.” The words were muffled into her pillow. “Yuck.”

“Yeah.” He stood, the floor cold under his feet, and groped for a T-shirt. “I’m going to make coffee and then hit the shower. Those guys should be on the scene as soon as it’s light.”

“Seems awful just to leave the body there overnight.”

“Not going to make any difference to her.”

“I suppose you’re right, but still.”

Patiently, Rick explained. “The coroner came out last night, took a look, and did all the official stuff and paperwork, but it was too dark to really do much of an examination, and the boathouse too rickety to bring in enough lighting. Besides, we were afraid to move her in case the whole thing collapsed into the water from the weight of the guys with the stretcher and destroy evidence. Two deputies stayed out there all night to make sure no one approached, and no animals messed with the evidence. I’d rather escort the body and sit in on the autopsy than spend a cold, dark night with it. Besides we’re really hoping this will tell us something,
anything,
that will help us catch the asshole doing this. Being careful was the only option.”

Jane sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Did the same man who last saw the Simmons girl really find Margaret Wilson?”

Rick pulled the shirt over his head, yanking it downward. “How the hell did you hear that?”
He
hadn’t told her.

“Someone mentioned it at the hospital. That’s really weird. Is it true?”

It was a big county, but a small community, relatively speaking. Everyone who worked for the sheriff’s department was supposed to not discuss cases, especially unsolved ones, but it still happened. Cell phones, radios, voice mail, text messaging, other social media … he wasn’t surprised the word was spreading fast, and the discovery of the body wasn’t a secret, but Grantham’s identity wasn’t common knowledge. “I shouldn’t really talk about it,” he hedged. “You know that. I think a couple of the stations in Madison and Milwaukee are going to interview Sheriff Pearson again later. We were told he’d give a formal comment now that we have a body.”

“In other words, watch the news?” Jane flopped back down and shut her eyes. “What good is it shacking up with a cop if you can’t get the inside scoop?”

“Hopefully it’s good in other ways.” He really couldn’t do a good imitation leer before coffee, and she wasn’t looking at him anyway, so he just left the bedroom and went into the kitchen. He poured out the old coffee from the day before, rinsed the pot, and got out a new filter. As he measured the grounds into the basket, he wondered how the sheriff had fared with Matthew Wilson. Breaking the news to the husband of the victim couldn’t have been easy. The guy had been frantic after his wife turned up missing, and really, who could blame him?

Any day of the week, Rick would rather take the body and sit through the medical examiner’s clinical dissection of what happened to her than talk to the distraught family members of someone who may have been murdered.

But at least it was over for Matthew Wilson.

With Melissa Simmons, maybe it was worse. All the waiting, the hope gradually deteriorating to resigned despair, the days going by in a shimmer of fear that news will come, and that it will be the very last thing you want to hear.

Both of them connected somehow by Grantham.

Couldn’t be a coincidence.

While the coffee percolated Rick stood under the hot stream of water in the shower. Thinking about it all. Grantham. The abductions. The bloody shoe. A decaying body stuck in a rotting boathouse. Grantham again.

He’d seen bodies before. Older people reported as not answering their phone or collecting their mail who had lived alone and had died at home. Traffic accidents, hunting accidents, boating accidents; some of them pretty bad. It happened in the course of law enforcement. Not the most pleasant part of the job, but inevitable. The difference was, of course, whatever happened to the missing girls was not accidental. Margaret Wilson hadn’t ditched her car and walked miles and miles to die in a dilapidated boathouse.