P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

“I have an ulterior motive to keep things friendly with Dancer,” Louis said.

“Which is?”

Louis opened the sketchbook. “Dancer has thousands of drawings of people whose names he doesn’t remember.” He pointed to Rhoda. “This girl was a friend of Julie Chapman’s. I need to talk to Dancer about her.”

Troyer stared at the drawing for a moment, then looked at Dancer.

“I won’t ask him any questions about Julie’s murder,” Louis said. “I just need to know who this girl is.”

“What if he blurts out something incriminating?”

“I can’t control that and neither can you,” Louis said.

There was something about this woman that reminded Louis of himself when he was a rookie investigator in rural Mississippi. Way in over his head, floundering for clues, afraid to make the wrong decision, but determined to go it alone.

“I won’t screw your client,” Louis said. “I promise.”

Troyer gave Louis a nervous smile, then looked back at Dancer. “You feel like talking today, Danny?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Come to the bars, please,” Troyer said.

Danny didn’t get up. All his attention was on finishing his drawing. He was also mumbling.

“What are you saying, Danny?” Louis asked. “We can’t hear you.”

“Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five.”

“I think he’s counting the wrinkles,” Louis said to Troyer. He looked back to Dancer. “Is that Aunt Bitty?”

“Yeah.”

“How many wrinkles do you have to draw?”

“A hundred and twenty-two.”

“Danny, can you stop for a moment and please come to the bars?” Troyer asked. “I’ve brought you some chocolate fudge.”

Like a robot reacting to a command, Danny set his pad aside and came to the bars. Troyer gave him a square of fudge. He ate it in two bites, licked his fingers, then wadded up the paper and gave it back to her through the bars.

Troyer leaned close to Louis. “When I met with him last night I had a box of fudge in my purse to take home,” she whispered. “When he didn’t respond to me I’m ashamed to say I used it to get him to talk.”

Louis held up the open sketchbook to Dancer. “Danny, can you tell me the name of this girl?” he asked.

Danny was still licking his fingers, eyeing Troyer. Finally, he looked at the drawing.

“Summer,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Can you tell me her name?”

Danny shook his head.

“Danny, listen to me,” Louis said. “Can you tell me if you ever saw this girl with Julie?”

Danny reached through the bars and touched the drawing, tracing Rhoda’s jawline with the tip of his finger. Louis sensed he was remembering and he stayed quiet.

“Cold,” Dancer said.

“What do you mean ‘cold’? You said it was summer.”

Danny formed a V with his fingers and put them on the eyes of Rhoda’s drawing. Still he said nothing.

Louis watched him, remembering how Dancer had captured emotions in the drawings he had done of Joe and Rafsky and himself. He looked at the sketch of Rhoda, and he suddenly saw what Dancer had seen.

“You mean she was cold on the inside,” Louis said.

“Eyes like ice,” Danny said. “Heart like ice.”

Louis leaned closer to the bars. Danny quickly took a step back, but he didn’t walk away, interested in Rhoda in a way Louis had not seen from him before. There was some sort of connection.

“Danny, someone told us this girl’s name might be Rhoda,” Louis said. “Do you remember anyone named Rhoda from when you were a teenager?”

Danny’s eyes were glazing over. Louis started flipping through the notebook to keep Dancer’s attention.

“Danny, look at this guy’s picture,” Louis said, showing him another face. “Do you know this person’s name?”

Danny shook his head.

“What about this one?” Louis asked, trying another unknown.

As if his batteries had died, Danny returned to his bunk and picked up his pad. He started mumbling again.

“Ninety-six, ninety-seven. .”

Louis watched him for a moment, then closed the sketchbook. He had worked complicated cases before, but this one was driving him crazy. A skeleton with no skull. A cop shot for no good reason. Hundreds of possible witnesses in the sketchbooks but only one name.

“You okay, Mr. Kincaid?” Troyer asked.

“Frustrated.”

“I understand,” Troyer said. “But I can’t allow any more interviews with Danny until we get a psychiatric evaluation. I also need to speak with the prosecutor about a possible plea on the attempted murder charges. I’m sorry.”

Now the lady grows a pair, Louis thought. Not that it mattered. For the first time in his career he was okay with a cop shooter taking a plea that might land him in a hospital rather than a maximum-security prison.

And Julie Chapman’s case?

The DNA test on her bones could take months. Anyone who might recognize Rhoda’s face was already gone from the island. Rafsky’s team had finished searching the cabin, even opening some walls. The cadaver dogs had alerted on nothing inside the cabin or the yard, and the teams were now working their way deeper into the woods. No one was willing to say it to Rafsky’s face, but it was becoming clear that Dancer didn’t have Julie Chapman’s skull.

Louis looked at the barred window, where the snow was starting to pile in the corners. Things were fast going cold.

And the truths they needed to know about Julie Chapman’s murder were very possibly trapped inside Danny Dancer’s enigmatic brain.

It was past midnight when Ross put the key into the front door of the cottage and slipped inside. The parlor was dark except for the glow of a dying fire in the hearth.

Ross hung up his coat and pulled off his scarf. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, holding the scarf to his nose. Her smell was still there in the cashmere, and so was his memory of the scarf draped between her bare breasts. It had been only a few hours since he had made love to her, but his desire stirred again. It was as powerful as it had been that first time five years ago when they began their love affair.

He hung up the scarf and went to the liquor cabinet in the parlor to pour himself a drink.

Love affair? No, that’s not what it was. There wasn’t a shred of love between them. It was all sex. Sex and professional favors. She needed an interview or some gossip at the state capital, and in exchange he needed. .

Sandy Hunt. Sophisticated, intelligent, and gorgeous-one of the most familiar faces in the Michigan media. Her public reputation was as a street-smart woman playing hardball in a man’s world. But privately Ross knew what people thought of her. He had heard what the other reporters said, the jokes they made and the names they called her in Stober’s bar as they watched her on TV. Sandy the slut. . that was the kindest one.

Ross drank the Hennessy, letting it burn its way down his throat.

A few hours ago he had been in her Lansing apartment, listening to Sinatra croon from the other room. It was a drizzly day, the kind of day that lulled a man toward sleep, and her bedroom had been a grotto of silver-blue shadows.

He had lain there, wondering why the fuck he kept coming back to a woman he couldn’t trust, wondering how he was going to get his attack ads on the air when he didn’t have the money to pay for them, wondering about-

The memory of Sinatra’s voice momentarily interrupted his thoughts.

“Today the world is old. . You flew away and time grew cold.”

He shut his eyes. Sandy had sensed something was wrong, because she started to stroke his chest, a tender gesture that she seldom offered. Her voice had the smoothness and burn of brandy.