Jeffery Deaver - Ice Cold

“Not how I heard it,” said Jeff Crane, by far the youngest of the three men. Jeff was lanky and sharp-jawed and had a buzz cut so close you could see the pink of his scalp. “I heard it was a spy plane.”

“Horse crap it was,” Al spat back. “All those civilians on board?”

“Yeah,” Jeff persisted. He seemed to like tweaking Little Al. “The Pentagon puts, like, spy equipment, radar or whatever, on passenger planes all the time to spy on the Russians. I think that was in the Globe .”

Henry took a swig of coffee.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Al said. His face had turned crimson. “Hank, you were in the Air Force, tell this kid he’s full of it.”

Henry set down his mug. “You’re both wrong,” he said. “I was just talking to a buddy of mine who’s pretty high up in the Pentagon. We went through Skyraider training together in Florida, back in the day. He said don’t listen to the news, it’s all propaganda, both sides.”

“What, it’s propaganda that two hundred and sixty-nine innocent souls were killed?” Al said.

Henry traced a pattern on his place-mat with the tines of a fork. “Oh, no. They got killed by the Russians, all right.”

“Exactly!” said Al.

“So what’re you saying, boss, the plane wasn’t really in Soviet airspace?” said Jeff.

“Oh, no,” said Henry evenly. “It strayed into Soviet airspace, all right. By accident, I’m sure. I’ll bet the pilot programmed the nav system wrong. It happens. You’d be surprised.”

“So what the hell did the Soviets shoot it down for?” Al demanded.

“My buddy says the Russians thought this Boeing 747 was a big old Boeing RC-135 reconnaissance aircraft. An intruder.”

“Oh, come on,” said Al. “I bet they don’t look anything alike.”

“You’re saying the Russians screwed up?” said Jeff.

“Big time,” said Henry.

“So how come they don’t just say so?”

“And admit their Air Force is so incompetent it couldn’t tell a Boeing 747 from an RC-135? Yeah, right. It’s the Cold War, man. Us versus Them. Can’t let the facts get in the way.”

Now, listening to the argument on the radio, Henry shook his head in disgust, got out of the cruiser and reached into the back for a snow scraper. He broke up a big ice sheet on the windshield. Meanwhile the freezing rain kept on splattering against the glass, big fat slushy drops.

He cast a longing glance back at the house. Usually on nights like this, no matter how late, Carol would be up as well, swathed in her baby-blue bathrobe, pouring freshly brewed coffee in a travel mug for him. She’d always hand him the mug with a sweet kiss and the same whispered words: “Stay safe out there, honey.”

But the house was dark now, and quiet. He opened the car door, tossed in the ice scraper, got into the cruiser, and backed slowly down the driveway. At the first stop sign, the cruiser fishtailed and slid straight through the intersection. He cursed aloud, pumped the brakes to bring the car careening to a stop. The windshield wipers thumped rhythmically.

It was a dangerous night to be out and about, and as he carefully crossed Route 6 toward Old County Road, he wondered what might make a guy go out on a night like this and murder an old man.

Old County Road was a narrow winding country lane with no guardrails, lane markings, or streetlights. He slowed down and switched on the side spotlight, and as he maneuvered the steering wheel with one hand, he shone the spotlight with the other, illuminating the mailboxes on the side of the road, one by one.

There it was. Number fourteen. On the left.

He turned and advanced slowly down the dirt drive. Up ahead, surrounded by sand and a spiky sea-grass lawn, was a white single-story double-wide, no doubt planted right on top of a concrete slab. On one side of the modest house was a pickup, blanketed with snow and ice. It looked like it hadn’t been used in days. Next to it was a Subaru all-wheel-drive sedan with Ohio plates. It looked like it had been there no more than a few hours. He edged in the cruiser and parked behind the two vehicles. Grabbing the handset to the Motorola police radio, he said, “Dispatch, this is Westbury C-One, off at the scene.”

“Ten-four, Westbury,” Melissa said. “FYI, your P-One is still stuck.”

“Got it,” he said. Poor Jeff.

He switched off the engine, got out, and took his handheld radio. The freezing rain was coming even harder now. He pulled out his .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver and kept it at his side as he slowly climbed the short stoop.

The front door was open. He could see through the storm door right into the house. He saw a tidy living room. A tired-looking couch and matching chairs and a television. A color TV set in a console with rabbit ears. Beyond the living room was a well-lit kitchen.

Seated on a stool in the kitchen was a scruffy middle-aged man in jeans and sneakers and a gray sweatshirt.

The man saw him and slowly raised both hands.

With his free hand, Henry pushed open the storm door. He strode in, raising the revolver in a two-handed grip. “Don’t move,” he called out. “Keep your hands up.”

“Absolutely, officer,” the man said calmly. He smiled. “Good evening.” On second glance he looked younger than middle-aged. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had shaggy blond hair and several days’ growth of beard.

When Henry reached the kitchen threshold, he saw the body.

Lying on the linoleum floor was an elderly white-haired man in gray pajamas and bedroom slippers. In the center of his chest were two sizable entry wounds. Dark crimson blood stained a large oval area around the wounds and pooled on the floor.

Henry looked quickly around. “Is anybody else in the house?”

“No, sir,” he said. “Just me and the deceased.”

“Where is your weapon?”

“On the counter.” He gestured with his chin. Next to the toaster oven on the white speckled Formica counter was a steel-framed Colt .45 1911 with wood grips, plain and powerful.

Henry advanced a few steps farther. “Who are you?”

“Ray Richardson.”

“All right, now, Ray, I’m going to ask you to slowly—and I mean slowly—stand up and rotate, with your arms still up in the air. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The man obediently got off the stool, hands up, and turned around. Henry stepped up, slid his left foot between Richardson’s legs, and smoothly handcuffed the man. Only then did he holster his revolver. He frisked the man and was satisfied. Then, grabbing the stranger’s left elbow, he guided him into the living room and sat him down on the couch.

“Sit, and don’t even think about moving,” he said.

“I understand,” Ray Richardson said quietly, even pleasantly. Henry backed into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on the living room, then peered more closely at the body on the floor. Vladimir Polowski, all right. Retired dairy farmer from Vermont, still spoke with a thick accent from his native Gdansk. He’d moved to Westbury a decade or more ago because he missed seeing the ocean. He liked to hang out at Crane’s Hardware and the Westbury Diner. He’d come here after selling his cows in Vermont because he was weary of getting up early every day for the milking.

Yes, those were some serious entry wounds. The Colt .45 packed a serious punch. One bullet would have done the job. The old Pole’s face had grayed out, nearly matching his white hair and handlebar mustache. Only a birthmark on his cheek stood out, an angry-looking purplish scimitar. His eyes were open, staring.

Henry looked back at the living room. Richardson sat quietly on the couch.

“All right, now, what happened here?”