Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (9 page)

He punched up a number on the phone on his desk and waited. Ellie was not on duty but she picked up on the third ring, brisk and businesslike. “MacIntosh.”

“It’s me. Say, want some good news?”

“From your tone I’m going take this with a grain of salt. What’s up?”

“Remember how we just talked about Walters?”

“Charming felon from Joliet, filthy beard, monosyllables and unattractive body odor? How could I forget him?” she said dryly.

“Yeah, well, good things come in pairs.” Rick leaned back in his chair, the springs squeaking. “He has a brother. A sex offender. You’ll be touched to find out they happen to be a close family. Keith Walters just moved in with big bro about two weeks ago. Before this he was in Appleton.”

“Are you serious?” There was unmistakable interest in her voice. “That was right before Margaret Wilson disappeared.”

“He was convicted on statutory rape about five years ago. I have another lead also, but not as good as this one. While our friend Reginald may have been vacationing in Joliet when Julia Becraft disappeared from that campsite, Keith had done his time and was free and about a two-hour drive away.”

Ellie said something under her breath that he couldn’t catch. Then she instructed, “E-mail me the information. I want to look it over.”

“We should go interview them, Ellie.”

“Yes, I’m starting to agree.”

“Any progress on Grantham?”

“For Julia Becraft’s disappearance, he was at home working, or so his notes say. His office is there. He made a couple of calls we can follow up on, but with a cell, you can be anywhere. He did meet a friend for dinner that evening, but this area isn’t that far from Milwaukee. It’s a four-hour drive. That’s doable. We can confirm the dinner, but I don’t know if it’ll mean much.”

Rick contemplated the fake rose in a vase on the desk of a colleague across the room. It was dusty and hadn’t looked real even when new. He blew out a breath. “In other words, it’s possible he’s still the one. She disappeared before noon. When her friends got back to the campsite for lunch, she wasn’t there. He could have been back well in time for dinner.”

“Right, but let’s see about the others. I haven’t been able to spend as much time on it as I’d like so far today. We had two meetings this morning with the lieutenant.”

“Let me know how it goes. Tomorrow afternoon let’s go over and have a chat with the Walters brothers. Word of warning: Reginald alone makes me nervous. The idea of two of them makes me feel downright uneasy.”

Ellie said something he almost didn’t catch.

“Did you just call me a pussy? A lady like you?” Rick grinned.

“Nope. I don’t use that word.” She laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right.” Rick hung up and thought about Reginald Walters and those flat black eyes. Was he a coward? Nope. He just wasn’t stupid.

*   *   *

The clouds scuttled
toward the east, and here and there a patch of blue showed in the sky. Bryce had woken to a light dusting of snow but it would be gone by midafternoon if the weather forecast was correct. He parked a few spaces away in the dirt lot in front of the Pit Stop and got out. The place looked ordinary and dumpy in the light of day, made of cinder block painted a pale sickly green, a corner of the sign broken out, the roof in need of replacing. It sat in a clearing of woods right off the county highway, one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of such small Wisconsin bars. There was only one other car in the lot at this early hour. The Jeep owned by Melissa Simmons was gone, probably towed by the police.

Bryce pushed open the door, thinking about the last time he’d been there. A part of him wasn’t sure why he’d come.

The burly bartender must be the owner, which is what he’d hoped. He was there behind the long, scratched bar, restocking cups, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. A huge jar of pickled eggs sat next to the cash register and the relic of a jukebox was silent in the corner. The only other patron was sitting at one of the tables, reading a newspaper and drinking Carlsberg from a bottle.

Bryce approached the bar, chose a stool, and sat down. “Draft, please.”

The bartender looked derisively at his leather jacket and tailored denim shirt and asked, “Light or regular?”

No, he supposed he didn’t dress like the normal logger type, so Bryce smiled thinly in response. “Regular would be fine.”

Proving your manhood by your beer selection, now that is mature.
He accepted the plastic cup and pushed a couple of bills across the wooden bar. It was actually a beauty, even scarred and scratched. Solid oak and antique, if he was a judge. Must have come from an old hotel or someplace similar. Bryce rested his elbows on the surface and took a sip. He said tentatively, “I was in here the other night. Do you happen to remember?”

The bartender glanced back, studied his face, and nodded. There was a hint of hostility in his gaze. “Sure do. Police have been here, asking about you.”

It shocked him to hear it put that way.

The man went on gruffly. “If it was the summer, I might not have noticed. Once we’ve got good snow on the ground I might not have either. Lots of people in and out, most of them strangers, up to enjoy the lakes when it’s warm, or cross-country ski and snowmobile in the winter. But it’s quiet this time of year and hardly anyone comes in but the regulars. You bought two drafts, and then another round, and ordered a pizza.”

Bryce took another drink and set down the beer with deliberation. “Then you recall I was with a young woman. Dark haired, pretty, wearing a pink shirt and jeans. She had car trouble and came in to ask about what towing company to call.”

Unruly brows lifted. “Yep.”

“Was everyone else in here that night local?” Bryce asked him, not even sure why he was bothering with this when surely the police knew their jobs. He wasn’t an investigator—not even close.

“Think so.”

Yeah, this is a good idea, Grantham. Why don’t you draw even more attention to yourself. What is this accomplishing anyway?

“Thanks.”

Bryce finished his beer and left, driving on the few miles to Carney. The parking lot at Hathaway’s was pretty crowded and he found a spot and went in, this time getting a ten-day fishing license and a box of sinkers, a foam bucket with minnows, and some new hooks. The same young man who waited on him before was back at the deli, but Russell Hathaway, the proprietor who Bryce remembered had always owned the place, was at the cash register. He was iron haired and tall, with stooped shoulders and a good-natured, lined face. His parents knew Russell on a first-name basis, but Bryce doubted the older man remembered him, even though he’d been shopping at the store off and on for most of his life. The once-a-summer visit didn’t inspire much of a memory.

He was wrong.

As Hathaway filled out the fishing license, he said genially, “Grantham, right? Son?”

“Yes.” Bryce was impressed, leaning over to sign the form. “I’m surprised you recognize me.”

“Your parents have been coming up here for thirty, forty years. You look like your dad.” Hathaway held up the license. “Want this laminated?”

“I’d appreciate it.” He didn’t plan on falling into the now-more-than frigid northern Wisconsin waters, but a person just never knew.

“I’ll be right back. If anyone comes up to check out, tell them just to give me a minute.”

In Milwaukee, no one would walk away from an antique register that required only a click of one key to open the cash drawer, but things were different up here. Amused, Bryce waited until the older man came back. He accepted the license and tucked it away in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“Here’s your minnows.” Hathaway handed over the foam bucket. “Your place is on Loon Lake, right?”

“The boat is out for the winter,” Bryce responded, picking up his purchases. “I might just do a little bank fishing on the Prairie or take out the canoe.”

“My parents used to own a little place on the river. Big fish in there.” A man who had wandered up behind him with a bag of chips and a loaf of bread spoke up. “Don’t go too far up upstream if you get off on 17. The pools get too shallow.”

Bryce turned and nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

“My son knows every good fishing spot in these parts. Ask him if you’d like to know where you should go this time of year, depending on what you want to catch.” Russell nodded back toward the deli. “From the size of those minnows, I assume you’re going for pike. Hey, Neil.”

Obligingly, the young man left the glassed back case and came down the aisle, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Yeah?”

“Best spot for northern with minnows right now?”

The man behind Bryce said in good-humored objection, “Russ, I’ve been fishing the waters around here since before he was born.”

Neil grinned. “That’s true, Jack, but I actually catch fish.”

Jack made a derisive sound but laughed, and Russell ambled off to answer a ringing phone somewhere.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not all that serious about the fishing,” Bryce admitted. “It’s more the scenery and solitude for me.”

Clearly not the correct answer for a true outdoorsman. Both Neil and the other man ignored that statement.

“Wouldn’t you say the Prairie, Jack?” Neil pursed his mouth, obviously considering.

“I already did.”

“You want lots of fish, try the little turnoff on Goose Road about six miles from here.” As he spoke, Neil rang up the chips and bread for Jack and without being asked reached behind him to select a pack of cigarettes from a shelf, which he also rang up and added to the bag. “There’s a curve with a bank, and a rocky outcrop, and a big pool between two boulders. You don’t even have to bother with your license. Just climb over the gate.”

Considering the state of his interaction recently with local law enforcement, Bryce said, “Um, no thanks, I’m not interested in trespassing.”

Jack laughed. “No worries. I own it. There’s a cabin there, but it’s falling apart. It’s just used for fishing. Help yourself.”

Actually, now that the subject had come up, Bryce knew just where he wanted to go. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Jack nodded, his smile good humored. “Hey, if you come up empty-handed, I’ll be happy to take you out. I fish about every day this time of year anyway. You can bring the beer.”

It was easy to forget, living in a big city, how friendly small-town people were. Bryce said, “I might take you up on that one afternoon.”

“Just let me know. Russell knows where to find me. Thanks, Neil.” Jack took his bag and departed.

Bryce left too, climbing into his vehicle and backing out slowly, the minnow bucket on the floor on the passenger side. Tonight he planned on grilling a steak, cracking open one of those bottles of wine, and having a pleasant,
relaxing
evening. It was what he came up here for. None of what was going on had really anything to do with him.

None of it.

He’d given the police what they wanted. That was enough.

Enough.

Except he kept seeing Melissa’s dark blue eyes in his mind and he was discovering he wasn’t good at detaching himself. His tires tossed gravel backward as he gave the Land Rover gas and pulled out of the parking lot.

Chapter 7

Infatuation was a mistake. The Hunter had learned that the hard way a few years ago when he almost tripped himself up and landed on his ass in a mess of trouble that might have ended in a severe lifestyle change.

But he could sense it coming on. It had started the other night and was why he’d been so impulsive and done the girl so soon after the last one. Sexual interest affected his clear thinking and no predator could afford to be careless, but he really couldn’t stop the fantasy from lingering … teasing him on the edge of his consciousness. He’d even caught himself whistling while working.

Happy-go-lucky, that was him.

The thought made him laugh quietly as he poured himself a beer.

*   *   *

The Walterses lived
just north of Merrill close to the Wisconsin River. Ellie saw the drive was nothing but beaten-down dying grass and ruts, and the battered mail box had no number or name on it, rust holes the size of half-dollars spotting it like some loathsome disease. She hadn’t been there before because they’d interviewed Reggie at work, and she hadn’t been missing much. Still, it was the best—if very slim—lead they had if they discounted Grantham.

Which she didn’t. Not by a long shot, but her instincts, which she normally trusted, were sending mixed signals. In retrospect, when she was in college, maybe she should have taken more classes in psychology. Would someone that intelligent deliberately draw attention to himself?

She sure as hell wouldn’t, but then again, she wouldn’t abduct young women either. It meant she didn’t understand their quarry, and it frightened her, not just as a cop, but as a woman. She disliked feeling vulnerable, and whoever was out there had accomplished just that.

So catch him and hang him out to dry
 …

The house was about a quarter of a mile back from the road, in a stand of white pine and hemlocks. It was an old fishing cabin, dingy gray clapboard with a small sagging front porch, and its lackluster appearance made the expensive pickup truck sitting next to it look even shinier and newer. Even if the truck hadn’t been there, a thin coil of smoke from a tin pipe sticking out of the roof would have told them someone was home.

Rick parked the patrol car next to the truck. Ellie got out, her shoes crunching the dead weeds. The air was crisp and laden with chimney smoke, but even though it was cool, the sun was shining and the cerulean sky shown only a few wisps of horsetail clouds. Beyond the clearing there was a gleam of silver water.

“The place is a dump, but this is sweet, with the river right out back,” Rick observed. “Biggest muskie I ever caught was in the Wisconsin. Sucker about tipped my canoe. I should have kept him and had him mounted. I was only nineteen and had some idealistic views on live and let live then.”

“Which you’ve since lost?” Ellie noted a flick of the curtains in the front window. Their arrival had been noticed.