P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

Louis hid his surprise. “Thanks.”

Rafsky sat back in his chair. “I want to ask you something,” he said. “You’ve got a good grasp of this case and experience with cold cases in general. I’m asking if you’d considering staying on to help.”

Before he could answer, Clark rapped on the glass door. He didn’t wait to be asked in. “Detective,” he said, “I think you’d better get back outside.”

“Why?”

“Ross Chapman is making a statement.”

Rafsky shot to his feet. “Goddamn it,” he said. He didn’t even bother to grab his jacket as he bolted for the door. Louis followed.

They stopped in the open doorway just behind Ross Chapman, who had commandeered the porch of the station as if it were a podium.

Chapman was in midsentence, so there was no way for Rafsky to stop him without looking heavy-handed.

“This has been a terrible time for my family,” Chapman said. “And I just wanted to say that my wife, Karen, and I appreciate all the kind words of support we have received.” He paused. “This has been particularly hard for my father, who, as you know, has not been in good health in recent years. Twenty-one years ago my sister, Julie, disappeared, and we did what we could to mourn her and move on with our lives.”

“Congressman,” someone yelled out. “The man in custody collects skulls. Does he have Julie’s?”

Ross stared down at the man. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.

“Have you seen it, Congressman?”

“I. . don’t-”

“Fuck,” Rafsky whispered to Louis. “He’s done.”

Rafsky stepped in front of Chapman and lifted a hand. “No more questions for today.”

Rafsky put a firm hand on Chapman’s sleeve and pulled him back into the foyer. Louis shut the door.

“I could have handled that,” Chapman said.

“No, you couldn’t,” Rafsky said.

“Look, Detective, I can-”

“I’m going to tell you this once and only once. Stay away from the press. And don’t make any assumptions about your sister’s case.”

“But I-”

“Go home,” Rafsky said.

Chapman was silent. When he started to open the door Rafsky pushed it closed. Looking around, he spotted Clark and waved him over.

“Sergeant, would you please escort the congressman home? And use the back door.”

Clark nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Chapman yanked up his raincoat collar and followed Clark.

“You’re not going to keep him quiet,” Louis said. “He’s her brother.”

“And a fucking politician,” Rafsky said.

Rafsky pulled out his cigarettes and started to light up. He hesitated, then went outside. Louis followed him out onto the porch.

Rafsky lit his cigarette and turned to Louis.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Will you stay?”

The reporters were moving away, probably headed to the Mustang. A ferry horn sounded, even though there were probably no passengers to summon.

Louis saw a spot of black emerging from the fog. It was Joe. She was pulling her small rolling suitcase and had his duffel slung over her shoulder.

Rafsky saw her coming. “I know you have plans,” he said. “I could use Sheriff Frye’s help, too.”

When Louis didn’t say anything, Rafsky tossed his cigarette to the street and went back inside.

Joe stopped at the foot of the steps and dropped the duffel. “We missed the ferry,” she said.

“I know.”

Joe’s eyes went to the closed station door and back to Louis’s face.

“You want to stay, don’t you?”

He came down the steps. “Yes.”

“Why?” she asked.

He had been asking himself that question all day, and the answer had come from Lily and what she had said that morning in the restaurant. It’s sad that the bones were down there in the dark for so long and no one knew it.

“I promised Lily I would make sure the bones get home,” he said.

Joe smiled, shook her head, and started dragging her suitcase back toward the Potty. Louis picked up his duffel and followed.

The fog grew thinner as they climbed higher. The only sounds were the steady thuds of Sergeant Clark’s footsteps behind him and the soft jingle of his keys.

Ross glanced back, but Clark didn’t meet his eyes. Last night he had come to the cottage and efficiently briefed Ross on the chief’s shooting and Dancer’s arrest.

But now he was clearly uncomfortable, and Ross knew why. Clark wasn’t like Rafsky or Kincaid. Clark was a local who knew how to treat people.

They made the turn onto West Bluff Road.

People who lived up here.

Ross thought back to the press conference. It had been his campaign manager’s idea, to use the spotlight of the chief’s shooting to get some camera time. But he hadn’t been prepared when the reporter blurted out, “Have you seen it?”

Julie’s skull. He felt a rise of bile in his throat and swallowed hard. This was so ugly, and it was only going to get worse. He had to stay in control somehow.

Ross stopped and turned to Clark. “Sergeant,” he said. “This man Dancer. Tell me more about him.”

“Well, sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss the case.”

“I just want to know what kind of man he is.”

Ross saw Clark’s eyes flick over to the big shuttered houses. “He’s lived here his whole life, sort of a hermit. Some folks say he’s retarded. They also know he’s been sneaking in and out of the old lodge.”

“What about these skulls of his? Did you see them?”

Clark hesitated and ran a hand under his nose as he gave a small nod. “Yeah, I saw them. His cabin is filled with them and all these bugs that eat the skin away. None of the skulls are human, though, sir.”

“Does Detective Rafsky think this man killed my sister?”

“I don’t know, sir, but he’s got a lot of people digging up Dancer’s yard.”

Ross nodded slowly. He looked down the road to the last house. “Thank you, Sergeant. I can make it from here.”

Clark turned and started back down the road. Ross headed to the cottage.

Inside, the house was chilly, the drapes drawn. Ross knew Maisey closed them to keep the house warm, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Like the house down in Bloomfield Hills, the island cottage was old and drafty. Sometimes he felt as if he’d been raised in a chill, which was one reason that when he married he built a big modern house in Rochester, with three fireplaces and two furnaces.

Ross took off his raincoat and hung it on a coatrack in the foyer. He heard the creak of footsteps above and looked up the staircase. The lights were on in the front bedroom. He needed to go up and see his father, but he needed a drink first.

He went to the parlor and switched on a lamp. He poured a half glass of Hennessy and sat down in the chair by the phone.

Maisey had left a small pile of messages. He took a quick drink and sifted through them.

Six calls from four different reporters, including a name he didn’t recognize from the Washington Post. Two messages from the Reptile-as he called his campaign manager-asking when he was coming back to Lansing. And two messages from Karen, one reminding him that the boys’ Cranbrook tuition was due and the other warning him that she wasn’t going to the Michigan Leadership Conference dinner alone.

Karen. .

Image was everything to her, and she was so good at burnishing it. Everything from what pictures of the family were released to the press to the color of his ties. It was a talent she had gotten from her mother, a distant relative of the Piedmont family, who had made a fortune building tract homes in the suburbs during the fifties. Karen’s parents didn’t have money but nonetheless Karen had been raised to believe privilege was her right. That mind-set led her to a college junior named Ross Chapman, a Ford executive’s son with a bright future.