Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (34 page)

*   *   *

There was every
chance he’d lose his job. Rick didn’t care, and it was surprising to realize it. He dealt with the harsh realities of life on a daily basis. Yes, up here, it wasn’t so bad. Not the concentrated evil of crime in big cities where poverty, prejudice, and just plain too many life forms were crammed into too few square miles contributed to the problem, but bad things did happen.

Not like this, though.

Grantham drank his coffee black. He sat across the vinyl-covered table of the busy little café, his gaze wary, his jaw already darkened to what was destined to become a pretty spectacular bruise. Rick had put a lot of frustrated hate into that punch and if the circumstances were different—if he could feel anything at all—he might even be sorry.

He wasn’t. Maybe he’d find it in himself later, when the icy clutch of despair loosened—if it ever did. Right now, that seemed optimistic. In the meantime, he couldn’t take the inaction anymore, and if Grantham was innocent, then fine, he’d maybe apologize one day. If he wasn’t innocent—

It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility he would kill him with his bare hands. From the very first instant he’d realized Jane was truly missing, his greatest fear was that she was
gone
.

He didn’t think he could bear it. He wasn’t just afraid for her, he was afraid for
himself
.

“Since neither of us seems to be very hungry,” Grantham began in a subdued tone, nestling his coffee cup in the thick white saucer, “mind telling me just what you have in mind?”

Rick had to acknowledge his hamburger and fries were just as untouched. He studied his companion. Ellie had taken Grantham to a Walmart that morning where he’d bought a clean shirt—that must have caused Mr. MIT a moment of pain, shopping at a discount store—because forensics still had all his clothes, and obviously also a razor because he’d shaved. He was still a pretty boy, but there was a haggard cast to his face that spelled either guilt—though Rick was coming around to the conclusion maybe Grantham wasn’t the killer—or the kind of emotional distress that culminated in too little sleep and no appetite. Rick wasn’t all that anxious to look in the mirror either. He hadn’t shaved in three days.

“I want you to help me find her.”

“I’ve already told you.” Grantham’s voice was ragged, hoarse, and too loud, and heads turned. He lowered the pitch. “I have no idea what happened to
any
of the missing women.”

“No? All right, let’s say I agree with that … but you do
find
them. Maybe Jane is dead.” The words came out in a low, painful hiss. “The killer has a distinct pattern and it doesn’t involve leaving his victims alive when all is said and done. Ellie thinks he maybe stores them somewhere until the search dies down, but he doesn’t do it with them still alive. Margaret Wilson had no defensive wounds, nor had she any evidence of adhesive on her wrists or mouth. He’d killed—then
kept
—her.”

Ellie’s lover looked at him like he was crazy. Yeah, Rick knew they were lovers because once you’d slept with someone, there was something there that didn’t go away. Even if you hated each other the way he detested Vivian now, the memory stayed between you. Ellie and Grantham had that connection.

He’d regret the rest of his life not marrying Jane. It might make no difference now to her, but he regretted his hesitation, and if he could have her back …
Goddammit, please let me have her back
.

He swallowed with difficulty and stared at his cup. “Maybe she’s dead,” he repeated, trying to come to terms with it, but not succeeding. “But what if she isn’t? What if I sit here, feeling sorry for myself, while he has her locked up somewhere? Laws are all about following rules, but you know,
he
isn’t following rules. I don’t want to either. Not anymore. Aren’t you the slightest bit pissed to be dragged into his personal hell?”

Bryce Grantham made a sound that might have been a laugh but had nothing to do with mirth. “Are you kidding me?”

“All right then. Help me.”

“I don’t know
how
.”

All around them people ate, talked, the smell of burnt coffee and pancake syrup heavy in the air. It was almost too warm, and the homey atmosphere cloying. Rick had shown up at the motel at noon, invited the other man to lunch, and maybe because he was bored being stuck there, maybe out of curiosity, maybe because this sucked for him too, Grantham had accepted.

“Think about it,” Rick urged, waving off an approaching waitress with a coffee pot. “You’ve got that high-class education and hopefully that indicates a level of intelligence that can be useful.”

“I can’t help you.” Grantham rubbed the bruise on his jaw with what looked an absent mannerism, and winced. “I wish I could, believe me. But everything that has happened up until now has been either chance or due to whoever is perpetrating the crimes. I’m not some sort of psychic, Deputy.”

Desperation crawled along every quivering nerve ending. Rick rasped out, “But the asshole is communicating with you. The bones, the earrings … he feels a connection. You two have shared something special.”

“Special? Good God.” Grantham shook his head and looked sick.

Rick folded his hands on the table. “I’m off duty right now. Unofficial vacation. You can’t leave the county. Maybe we can help each other pass the time. Ellie’s going to be wrapped up in seeing if she has enough evidence to convince a judge for a search warrant of Hathaway’s house and vehicle. She doesn’t, by the way. All she has is your word that you didn’t go into town. You haven’t been charged because we don’t have any real physical evidence and Ellie’s been pressuring Pearson to drag his feet about going to the district attorney. With Neil’s testimony they could build a circumstantial case against you that might stick at least enough to go to the grand jury.”

“Are you supposed to tell me that?”

“No.”

Fuck my career,
Rick thought as he took a gulp of tepid coffee. Screw it. He was giving away information but he didn’t care. He went on. “Your expensive lawyer will get you off, I’d guess, because we have nothing on you really, but a trial would not be pleasant. Trust me, none of them are.”

Grantham looked away, his face taut. “I don’t need to trust you. I’ve figured that out for myself, but thanks anyway. What is this all about?”

“It could be Hathaway, but we have even less on him. No judge is going to give the sheriff’s office a search warrant based on Ellie’s hunch the guy was lying. Maybe Judge Branscum if he’s in a good mood, but I’ve worked here for years now. Take my word on it; it’s going to be tough.”

“Didn’t have any problem getting a warrant with me.”

“You were already morphing into our favorite suspect. You kept giving us evidence. Hathaway is only someone who’s lying if
you’re
telling the truth.”

“What the hell ever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Grantham muttered resentfully.

“That was a bill of goods sold to us from the beginning from the conception of the judicial branch of our government. Sue our founding fathers.” Rick tapped the tabletop with an emphatic fingertip. “Want the modern practical view? It translates to if you’re the most obvious suspicious person in a case like this the police are going to hunt you down like a rabid dog. At this point, you’re all they’ve got and the public wants proof they are at least trying to do their job. Better be able to prove you weren’t in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Your cynical take is really reassuring, Deputy.”

Sometime in the bleak wilderness of the past two days a blackness had settled into Rick’s mind—he wasn’t a poetic person—but maybe even his soul. He’d never wanted to be a player, but suddenly was one. “Let’s go rattle his cage.”

“Hathaway?” Grantham stared at him.

Rick looked down at his hands. They’d somehow managed to become wound together so tight he was surprised the knuckles didn’t snap like twigs. “If he’s the one, you walking through the door is going to be like a birthday party for him. You find his bodies. He brings you gifts. You want to know what I think? On a psychological level, he connects with you because in his freakish asshole way, he thinks you’ve shared something with him. I mean, the police come calling, asking about a missing woman. Who does he think of right away? In fact, he blatantly tries to deflect suspicion onto you. I want to see how he reacts if you and he come face to face.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good idea. What if we tip him off that there
is
some suspicion? Aren’t we interfering with the case?”

Rick said with blunt, emphatic force, “You got a better way to spend the day? This could clear you.” He added in a more controlled tone though his voice cracked, “And what if we can find Jane? Think about her for a minute. Please.”

If he could have erased that pleading note, he would have, but apparently it was impossible.

This was important. So …
important
.

The other man looked away for a moment, his averted face set. Then his mouth thinned, and he said unexpectedly, “Wait a minute. There’s a place on the Prairie River.”

“What?” Rick couldn’t mentally make the leap.

Bryce Grantham pushed his plate away as if he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. “It’s privately owned and no one uses it. I think there’s a cabin there. It’s owned by someone named Jack, but he and Hathaway seemed to be good friends and it was made clear to me that it isn’t used except for fishing.” A muscle in Grantham’s cheek tightened visibly. “Jack would remember offering to let me fish there … right in front of Neil Hathaway, who gave me directions. But I didn’t go there, I went to Luke’s place instead, where I found Margaret Wilson, so I’d guess he would remember it.”

Rick wasn’t completely dead, because the police officer inside him felt the familiar quickening of his pulse whenever a case started to turn. Sometimes it was just a hunch, but it seemed as if good officers had a sense for what was a long shot and what might end up in an arrest. “If he’s the one, he sure as hell would.”

“If I was trying to implicate someone, I might use a place I could prove the suspect knew about.” Grantham didn’t have the same flare of excitement; instead he looked sick, the bruise emphasizing the bloodless pallor of his skin. “If Ellie hadn’t said anything about Hathaway, it wouldn’t even have occurred to me.”

“It’s a possibility.” Rick stood up and tossed some money on the table.

“Maybe we should go take a look.”

*   *   *

Ellie put her
head in her hands, took a deep breath, and tried to focus. The information swam in front of her. Four victims. Possible number five gone only a few days. Nothing definite from the search of Jane’s car …

Jane. Oh, God
.

These weren’t just statistics, put on a piece of paper for analysis; these were cold, lethal hard facts and this last victim wasn’t faceless either. She knew her and it was much too personal.

“Pearson’s at the airport. More DCI due here soon.” One of the younger deputies sauntered past her desk, his face irritatingly alight from the excitement. “McConnell is calling in reinforcements. The case is making every single major newspaper by the end of today.”

Okay, it was usually a very quiet county, but this kind of attention they could all do without. “No one will be happier than me to have as many investigators on this case as possible,” she said with biting emphasis. “But in the meantime, can we keep in mind Officer Jones has a very personal stake in the outcome of this? Can I have a cup of coffee, please? I’m waiting on a call.”

The smug smile vanished. “Sure, Detective.”

The phone rang and she snatched it up, still waiting to hear from Minnesota on the follow-up on Hathaway. It was Pearson instead. “Got anything else? We’re stopping at a Perkins for lunch … oh hell, I guess dinner. I don’t even know what time of day it is.”

“They serve breakfast all day.”

Pearson at least could still wring out a laugh. “Hey, it’s on the county. Have you seen our budget? They’re lucky. I could have picked a Burger King. What’s going on?”

She tugged out the notepad, full of scribbles. “Neil Hathaway has no convictions, and no charges that stuck. He was arrested for battery. Girlfriend. She dropped.”

“I see.” He sounded subdued. “It could mean something and it could mean nothing, but we don’t have much else but Walters and Grantham.”

She wished she didn’t have to agree. “I’m trying. I called back to find out about missing persons cases that occurred during the time Hathaway lived in Ely to see if any fit the profile of what’s been happening here. I’m still waiting.”

“Good idea.” There was a heavy pause. “How’s Rick?”

She didn’t want to tell Pearson about Rick’s out-of-line behavior the night before. Assaulting a suspect—or witness—whatever you wanted to call Bryce, was
so
out of line he might get suspended, but under the circumstances she couldn’t bring herself to censure someone in that much pain.

Bryce had been surprisingly decent over the incident too, but when she thought about it, he was as touchy as Rick. “He’s a little out there but who can blame him?”

“Not me,” Pearson said heavily. “I can’t blame him one bit, Ellie, that’s why I took him off the case. Let me know what the Minnesota boys say, okay?”

“Of course.”

She hung up, noting the deputy hadn’t brought her cup of coffee. That was fine, she hadn’t wanted it anyway. Taking a chance, she picked up the phone and dialed the number she’d gotten from the faxed report for the fifth time. The woman had probably moved, and how long it might take to find her, if she even
could
be found—

To her surprise, someone answered. “Hello?”

“Laura George?”

“Yes.” Tentative admission, wary of telemarketers probably.

“This is Detective MacIntosh working with the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I saw the messages … I’ve been at work. Why do you want to talk to me?”

“Can I have a moment of your time to discuss Neil Hathaway?”