P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

“Rafsky,” Louis said, ripping out Rhonda’s page. He held it next to the page for #15. “Look at this,” he said.

Rafsky took the two pages. It took him only a second to see the pattern. He handed Louis the page for #15, keeping the page for Rhonda.

“Let’s walk through this,” he said.

He went to the parlor, stopping at a shuttered window. When he turned on his flashlight it picked up black smudges of fingerprint dust. “They found Lange’s prints here.”

“This must be the broken window he said they used to sneak in.”

“Rhonda’s prints show up on the windowsill here,” Rafsky said. “And all over the room.”

“I’ve got prints in the room for number fifteen but none on the sill.”

Rafsky went to the entrance hall. “You have prints here?”

Louis nodded. “Just on the banister.”

“No banister prints for Rhonda,” Rafsky said. “Let’s move on.”

There was nothing in the long hallway leading to the back of the lodge or in the back rooms of the first floor, so they headed to the kitchen.

“Lots of good prints for Rhonda here,” Rafsky said, surveying the smooth countertops and wood cupboards.

“Same for number fifteen,” Louis said. He went to the fireplace. “I have a lot of good hits here.”

“I have none on the fireplace,” Rafsky said. “My next print is at the door leading to the basement.”

“I have one there, but it’s tagged no value,” Louis said. “It’s too smeared.”

They paused at the top of the steps as Louis shined his flashlight down into the darkness.

“Rhonda left several good prints on the wall going down,” Rafsky said, “including one full handprint.”

“I have nothing along the steps,” Louis said. “Let’s go down.”

At the bottom they stopped. The Maglite beams pierced the darkness. Louis swung the beam slowly over the basement, picking up the rough walls, the concrete floor, and the old boiler.

“I’ve got two good prints for number fifteen on one of the steps,” Louis said. He went behind the steps and found the black fingerprint dust on the back of the fourth step.

“Maybe number fifteen was hiding back there, waiting for Rhonda,” Rafsky said.

Louis came out and shined his flashlight onto a spot about three feet from the steps. “I have multiple no values for number fifteen here,” he said.

“Same for Rhonda,” Rafsky said.

“I’m guessing there was a struggle,” Louis said. “That’s why the prints here are all smeared.”

“But Rhonda died over there,” Rafsky said, shining his light at the drain four feet closer to the furnace.

Rafsky blew out a long sigh. “Fuck, no prints for Ross anywhere, and none for Cooper in the basement.”

“It was winter,” Louis said. “They could have worn gloves.”

“Maybe. But who the hell is number fifteen?”

They were quiet for a long time. Louis swung his flashlight beam up the steps, pausing it on the step where the two prints had been lifted. He turned the beam onto the report for UNIDENTIFIED #15. Again he scanned the locations throughout the lodge, focusing finally on SW UPSTAIRS BEDROOM.

The same bedroom where he had seen the initials carved in the log wall-JC+CL. The same initials-JC-engraved inside the Kingswood ring.

“It was Julie,” he said. “Julie is number fifteen.”

Rafsky’s beam swung to him.

“I found a picture of Rhonda and Cooper in Chester Grasso’s garage,” Louis said. “I thought Rhonda might have killed Julie out of jealousy.”

“But then Rhonda became our victim,” Rafsky said.

They both swung their flashlights to the spot in the floor where all the smeared prints had been found.

“There was a struggle,” Louis said. “And Julie won.”

“So where is she?” Rafsky asked.

Louis took a few steps forward, moving his flashlight beam over the ghost stain on the floor.

“I don’t know where she is, but I know she’s alive,” Louis said.

“Assumptions, Kincaid,” he said softly. “Bring me some proof.”

Louis stood down the slope from the Chapman cottage, watching the two women on the porch. One of them was Maisey, who he knew was still readying the place for sale. He didn’t know the other woman, but from the way she was gesturing toward the house he suspected she was a real estate agent. He was waiting for her to leave so he could talk to Maisey alone.

Bring me some proof.

Rafsky’s words had brought him back here, to the woman who was figuratively-if not literally-Julie’s mother.

The agent and Maisey shook hands, and as the agent came down the walk and passed Louis, Maisey’s eyes found his.

He knew she was still angry that he had asked her to take a DNA test, so he just stood there hoping she would relent. Finally, with a small shake of her head, she motioned him toward the house.

The foyer was stacked with cardboard boxes. Maisey stood in front of him, arms crossed, waiting for him to speak.

“I’m sorry, Maisey,” Louis said. “My questions about you and Julie last time I was here were intrusive and rude.”

Maisey’s lips drew into a straight line.

“But it’s my job to speak for the victim,” he said. “Sometimes that takes me places that are uncomfortable for everyone.”

Maisey uncrossed her arms. “I’m still not going to take that test,” she said.

“I’m not going to ask you to again.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay, then. Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Kincaid?”

“Love one.”

“I’ve closed the heat vents in most of the rooms already. But the parlor’s warm. Go have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring you a cup.”

Louis wound his way through the boxes to the parlor. Maisey had mentioned before that she wasn’t sure what to take from the house but apparently had found enough keepsakes to fill at least two horse carts with boxes.

He took a seat next to a table with a carafe on it, rubbing his hands to warm them. Maisey appeared a moment later with a cup and poured him some coffee. She had left some picture frames on her chair, and she picked them up before sitting down. She kept them on her lap.

“What do you need this time, Mr. Kincaid?” Maisey asked.

“First, I need to ask that you not share what we talk about today with anyone,” Louis said.

She hesitated, then nodded. “You were fair with me about Mr. Ross, so you have my word.”

Louis decided to just start laying things out and watch her for a reaction.

“The remains we found in the lodge do not belong to Julie,” he said.

Maisey kept her eyes on his, but there was no shock in her expression. Finally she looked away, focusing on the picture frames in her lap. She was frozen, not a muscle moving. He wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“Maisey, are you okay?”

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “How could. . how could you, how could the police let everyone think. . let Mr. Edwards die believing you had found his little girl?”

Louis set his cup down. It was a deft recovery, Maisey turning her inability to find an appropriate response back onto the police in the form of blame. It was also interesting that she didn’t name herself as a wounded party in the police’s screwup.

“On behalf of the police all I can do is apologize,” he said.

Maisey’s fingers tightened on the frames. She had just been told that her family’s twenty-one-year search for closure ended with a case of mistaken identity, yet her face was a mask.

“Do you want to know whose remains they are?” Louis asked.

Maisey’s voice was soft and far away. “If it’s not Julie, why would it matter to me?”

“Because it was Julie’s friend,” Louis said. “The girl you picked out of the sketchbook. Her name was Rhonda Grasso.”