Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (7 page)

So
think
. Eleven days. It was too short. The pattern had altered. What had changed? Was it simply opportunity?

What drove this particular killer? She needed to know, to understand so she could stop him cold …

“Damn it,” she muttered out loud. She was doing it again, every muscle tense though she sat in the most relaxing chair she’d ever owned, her gaze going to the notes still on her dining room table.

Tomorrow she could obsess over this case. Tonight she needed to sleep.

Chapter 5

He liked it when he could visit. Dangerous, he supposed, but some risks were worth it. Predators took chances. That was how it worked. The split-second decision was part of the thrill.

He was a hunter, not a killer.

That was how he’d always looked at it.

At them. At what had happened between them, more intimate than sex.

It was pitch dark, icy cold, dead quiet as he approached the structure, his flashlight skirting dead brush and black water.

Later, he’d take her home, but for now, he’d just drop by …

*   *   *

Four of them
were missing.

Shock held him momentarily immobile. Bryce stared at the front page of the paper as he stood in the checkout line.

Another disappearance in Lincoln County?
It was in bold, undeniable headlines.

What the hell was that?
Another?
It went on. If Melissa was included, four women. Gone. No traces.

Bryce hoped to God the article didn’t mention his name on another page. Why it mattered, he wasn’t sure, but he’d rather be disassociated as much as possible from a murder investigation, even if he was just identified as the person who last saw the most recent victim alive.

When he thought of it that way, it made him sick inside.

He hadn’t realized the situation. He’d been so wrapped up in his latest project for the past six months he hadn’t watched the news much. Milwaukee had its share of troubles anyway, so a problem up north usually got stuck away on a back page somewhere. Now that it slammed home in the form of the headline on the front page of the newspaper sitting in the rack in the supermarket, he did recall hearing something about this going on in the usual quiet of Lincoln and Oneida counties. His mother might have mentioned the two missing girls last summer, but he hadn’t been listening well enough apparently.

No wonder Detective MacIntosh had been so intense and serious. Bryce reached over, took one of the papers, placed it with his groceries, and his fingers were clumsy as he extracted his credit card and paid.

A hundred and fifteen dollars later he wasn’t going to starve in the next week anyway. He loaded the bags into the Land Rover, stopped at the liquor store, added a couple of bottles of full-bodied red wine to his provisions, and headed out of town.

The day had dawned as nice as the one before, but the skies had grown to the color of molten lead and it was colder. He’d need more than baseboard heat this evening if the forecasters were right, though no significant rain or snow was predicted and it was supposed to clear off again and even warm up into the fifties in a few days before the next front rolled through.

Four missing women
.

He drove slowly through the thickening afternoon, watching out for deer on the move, dusky forms through the breaks in the trees. A couple of flakes of snow drifted down, but it wasn’t supposed to drop below thirty. He took his turn off County B, went past Beaver Lake, and caught the curvy Pine Lane road.

Bryce had spent the day reading. It should have been restful. It was, actually, revisiting old friends.
Paradise Lost.
Milton.

Death … on his pale horse.

Perhaps he’d read something else tomorrow.

He’d considered doing his dissertation on Milton but it was overdone. Instead he’d chosen Henry James, though he still wasn’t sure even after spending the better part of two years analyzing his work he understood most of the symbolism in the man’s writing. The theme, however, turned him off. Death, the possibility of torment trapping human beings in a perpetual cycle of guilt and betrayal …

Not that James was very cheerful either. Maybe if Bryce had read one of those romance novels his mother had lying around the cabin instead, he thought with wry amusement, it would have been better. He wanted to relax, not dwell on the intricate dark side of mankind’s foibles. A little sex, a love story, and a happy ending. It would be nice for a change.

He pulled into the wooded lane that led to the cabin and immediately caught sight of the car parked in front of the cottage. Police cruiser.

Why the hell are they here?

Both Detective MacIntosh and Deputy Jones were out of the car, leaning against it, talking. They turned as he drove up and parked by a stand of birches in his usual spot, their conversation arrested. Bryce opened the door and slid out, his stomach oddly tight. Not very brilliantly, he said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Dr. Grantham.” MacIntosh smiled. It was very slight, and really didn’t reflect the emotion in her eyes. She had interesting eyes, he’d noticed that before. Greenish gold in color, and she had an assessing way of looking at you, which he supposed made most people feel as uncomfortable as it did him under the circumstances.

Actually, what
were
the circumstances?

“Sorry to bother you again, but can we have a few minutes?” Her voice was cool, low, just like the day before. A single flake of snow floated down and landed in her dark gold hair.

It was incongruous to the situation, but he found her attractive.
What an idiot
. “Have you … found her?”

“This won’t take long at all.”

The knot in his stomach tightened just a little at her refusal to answer, like someone using a wrench on the nut on a bolt. Next to the female detective, square in his dark jacket, Jones’ face was unreadable.

“Sure,” Bryce said slowly. “I am not sure what else there is I can tell you, but that’s fine. I have groceries to carry in if you don’t mind waiting a minute or two.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll unlock the door.” To his chagrin he fumbled to find the right key on the ring, but finally managed it, and pushed open the door. “Please, feel free to wait inside. It’s getting cold out here.”

“Thank you.”

MacIntosh went in, but Jones came over to the Land Rover when Bryce popped the back hatch door and hefted out three bags with ease and carried them inside. Bryce managed to juggle all the rest except for the milk and the bag containing frozen meat, which he figured with the temperature outside would be fine for a little while at least. He went in to find MacIntosh standing at the long windows facing the lake. She said, “Pretty view.”

“I agree.” He could feel them both watching as he dumped the bags on the kitchen counter. For some perverse reason he didn’t want to put away his purchases in front of them, as if it revealed something innately personal in whether he preferred Yukon gold potatoes or russet, or what brand of jarred spaghetti sauce.

Like folding your laundry in public, he thought. Boxers or briefs?
Here’s the answer for all to see.

He turned, lifted his brows a fraction. “Please sit down if you’d like.”

They both did. He wished they hadn’t. It indicated a longer conversation than he wanted. He really didn’t want a conversation at all. Both officers chose the comfortable plaid couch, so to face them, he really had little choice but to take the green wing chair by the woodstove.

“We’d like for you to just go over your story from yesterday morning one more time.” Jones had a deep voice, a little throaty. Maybe a smoker at one time? He unbuttoned his jacket and took out a notebook.

“I believe I told you and Detective MacIntosh each the same thing at different times. Did something not match? I find that hard to believe since there was only one set of events.”

“Just go over it again, Dr. Grantham, if you don’t mind.”

She’d obviously checked up on him. Found out he had a Ph.D. in literature, though that wasn’t how he made his living. Yet. He’d really love to write that damned book he swore was a wellspring inside him, but first his career, then the divorce, and now this, made it really pretty difficult to concentrate.

The detective unbuttoned her coat. Today she was dressed differently. Not quite as casual in gray slacks, a red sweater visible under her dark wool coat, and her hair was loose and shining around her shoulders. She added, “I am sure you understand this is an investigation that could involve multiple cases. We don’t want to overlook anything, and what might not seem important to you could be significant.”

“I had no idea there were other women missing until today.” He pointed at the newspaper sticking out of the top of one of the bags on the counter. “At the supermarket they had the newspaper with the headline there. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, obviously. If the media has been covering the case down in Milwaukee, I haven’t seen it or paid attention, I guess. I don’t watch a lot of television.”

Jones wrote something down. Why the hell he did that, Bryce wasn’t sure, but it annoyed him.

MacIntosh said smoothly, “Since you now do know, maybe you won’t mind going over your story once again? You are our only witness, or at least the closest we have to one.”

The word “story” was one he didn’t care for much, but he obligingly went through the events again. The impulsive urge to stop at the tavern because he was hungry, his chance meeting with the dark-haired girl named Melissa, their brief conversation, the issue with her car …

“You said she asked you for a ride,” Jones interrupted at one point.

“Yes,” Bryce said evenly. “
She
asked
me
. The most I did was offer to wait once she realized her car wouldn’t start.”

“Did she say she was having trouble with her car previous to that night?”

“Actually, she did mention she’d had to call for a tow truck before. Surely you can check that out.”

MacIntosh merely nodded. Jones asked, “Who do you work for, Dr. Grantham?”

What does that have to do with anything?
He answered, “No one.”

Good God, had he really just said that? Talk about a Freudian slip of psychotherapy proportions. When a man referred to himself as no one, he
might
want to take a look at his self-image. He clarified, “I meant I am self-employed and do work for various companies on an independent project-by-project basis.”

“Must be lucrative.” Jones jerked his head toward the front door. “Nice ride.”

“It can be.” Bryce furrowed his brow. “I don’t think I understand why anything about me matters.”

It was MacIntosh who answered. “As you said, we do have other women who have disappeared from this area in the past seventeen months.” She pulled a list from her pocket. “Julia Becraft, aged twenty-one, on June 10 of last year. Then it was quiet, until Patricia Wells, aged nineteen, vanished on July 8 of this year. Just eleven days ago a twenty-nine-year-old Realtor named Margaret Wilson’s abandoned car was found about ten miles from here. She hasn’t been seen since. Now it seems we have Melissa Simmons.”

He’d liked Melissa. Liked that spontaneous sweet smile … he really couldn’t believe something had happened to her.

Bryce swallowed and glanced between them both. “It’s a terrible thing.”

“Very.” Detective MacIntosh’s gaze seemed more searching than ever. “You do understand we can’t let any lead go?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “I wonder if you could perhaps give us a list of your whereabouts on the day of each disappearance.”

Stunned at the implication, he couldn’t say anything at all for a moment. He stared at her, trying to process the request. When he did find his voice, it sounded unnaturally hoarse. “You can’t think
I
had anything to do with any of this?”

“So far there’s no evidence to indicate you do, but we’d like to make sure.” Jones sounded matter-of-fact. “It’s our job. Nothing personal, sir.”

Nothing personal in telling someone he was of interest in a serial murder case? Bryce felt as if his stomach was now a figure eight. With effort he steadied himself.
Relax. Just give them what they want.

That was the best plan, right?

“Fine,” he said, managing to keep his tone civil. “I keep a day planner and use it religiously. I should be able to go back and give you specifics on where I was and what I was doing. It’s at home on my main computer though, not on my laptop. I’ll have to go someplace and access wireless Internet, retrieve the file, and print it.”

“There’s a coffee shop in Rhinelander that offers wireless,” MacIntosh said helpfully. “Get the file and you can print it at the station, if you like.”

He didn’t like. He wanted to go nowhere near the county police station. At thirty-six, he’d never been in a police station and very much wanted to keep it that way. He’d find a printer somewhere else. “Is tomorrow okay?” He gestured at the groceries. “I came up here for a vacation. So far it hasn’t been all that relaxing and it’s getting dark.”

“We appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Grantham.” MacIntosh stood, slipped a card from an inner pocket in her coat and held it out along with the list of dates. “I hope you have a nice evening.”

He took the card and said hollowly, “Thank you.”

*   *   *

It took Rick
about two seconds after starting the car to say, “What do you think?”

Tough one
. What
did
she think, Ellie wondered. Well, for starters, she thought Grantham hadn’t reacted in the way a guilty man would, but he had seemed nervous. On the other hand, cops did make people nervous, so that was hardly solid evidence of anything.

So much for getting a real handle on their current only—and only tenuously anyway—suspect. Ellie turned and looked out the window. It was now well past dusk and the cold wind whispered past the windows of the car, the pines with their branches like feathered arms amid starker deciduous trees, stripped to ghostlike bareness as they passed, watchful and close. The headlights picked up flecks of snow in falling crystals. The road looked slick, and probably was.