P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

“Can you stay?” he asked softly.

“For a while,” she whispered.

Louis glanced at his watch. Only seven-thirty, still plenty of time before briefing. He got up and went to the coffeepot, pouring his second cup of the morning. Returning to his desk, he looked down at the papers and mail, the stuff he had taken from Lovejoy’s mailbox. Gibralter had told him to go through it, see if there might be something, some small clue.

Louis sipped the coffee, struggling to get his blood flowing, his mind working. He hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, but for once he didn’t care.

Zoe had stayed until nearly three. He had wanted her to spend the night, entwined with him in the afghan on that moth-eaten bear rug. But she had refused. Strange woman. Tender in her lovemaking but as soon as it was over she had turned edgy, as if she couldn’t wait to leave. Strange, strange woman, unlike any woman he had been with before. The others had all expected things after sex — everything from a couple minutes of cuddling to a lifetime commitment. But not Zoe. It had left him feeling a little unbalanced and, he finally had to admit, bruised around the old ego. She wouldn’t even give him her phone number. Just the promise that she would return. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted a woman as much.

He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. Easy, easy…back to the task at hand. He began sorting through Lovejoy’s mail.

Lots of bills…but nothing from the phone company, which was what he had been hoping to find. He jotted a note to Dale to have Lovejoy’s phone records pulled. Discarding the junk mail and the magazines, he turned his attention to the copies of the New York Times.

Pulling off the blue plastic he saw all three were Sunday editions. Now why would a guy who didn’t get the local paper take the trouble to have the Sunday Times sent to him every week?

The crossword. Lovejoy had been working on one when he was shot in the shanty. Louis focused on the dates on the front pages. December 1, December 8 and December 15. Louis fished out his pocket notebook and flipped through it. The puzzle found in the shanty was dated November 24. Why was Lovejoy working on an old puzzle when there were new ones in his mailbox?

Louis sat back in his chair, frowning slightly. Maybe it took three weeks for the damn paper to make its way to an outpost like Loon Lake.

He opened the paper and found the circulation number. He dialed it and reached an operator, who politely told him he could get the Sunday edition of “the world’s greatest newspaper” mailed to him for fifty-six dollars a year. But that since he lived in a rural area it would be a three-day delivery.

Louis thanked her and hung up. He was staring at the Times, lost in thought, when Jesse came in. He grunted out a greeting and went straight to the coffeepot. He stood, still in his parka, gulping down the coffee. He came over to Louis’s desk, peering down at the mail and newspapers.

“That Lovejoy’s stuff?”

Louis nodded.

“Anything in it?’

“No,” Louis said. “No copes of the Argus, at least.”

Jesse gave a snort of derision. “The Argus? Shit, Fred hated that rag. Got mad at it when they endorsed Jimmy Carter and he canceled his subscription.”

Louis drummed the pencil on the desk. That explained no local papers at least. But the untouched Times still bothered him. And the dead dog, he realized suddenly. If Lovejoy had been killed recently, the dog would not have starved to death.

“Something doesn’t make sense,” Louis said.

“What doesn’t?” Jesse asked.

“Lovejoy left the papers in his mailbox. The last crossword he worked on was November 24.”

Jesse frowned. “So?”

“It could mean Lovejoy was killed weeks ago, some time between November 25 and December 4.”

Louis watched as Jesse’s expression shifted from confusion to trepidation. “About the same time as Pryce,” Jesse said.

Louis nodded.

Jesse turned away. Louis couldn’t tell but he thought Jesse was looking at Pryce’s photo on the wall.

“Jess.”

He turned to look at Louis. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“Get what?”

“What’s he waiting for?” Jesse said. “If it’s been three weeks, what’s he waiting for?”

Louis didn’t know what to say. An undercurrent of fear had been running through the station ever since Lovejoy was discovered but not one man had given voice to it. Two cops were dead. Who was next? It was the question every man asked, but only of himself.

“Maybe he’s finished,” Louis said, knowing it didn’t sound convincing.

Jesse wasn’t listening. “What’s the fucker waiting for?” he murmured. He went slowly into the locker room.

Louis thought of going after him but what could he say? He glanced at the wall clock. Nearly eight, time for briefing. He gathered up Lovejoy’s mail and stuffed it back in the bag. This would have to wait. Jesse would have to wait, too.

“Morning, Kincaid.”

Louis looked up to see Gibralter coming in.

“Chief,” Louis said.

“I want to see you and Harrison before briefing,” he said, as he swept by into his office.

“Right.” Louis picked up the bag and deposited it on Dale’s desk to be logged back into the evidence room. He was refilling his coffee when Jesse emerged in a crisp uniform.

“Chief wants us now,” Louis said.

“He say why?”

Louis shook his head.

Gibralter was lighting up a Camel, standing behind his desk when they went in.

“I’ve decided to pull you two off regular duty,” he said. “I want someone full-time on Pryce and Lovejoy,” Gibralter added.

Louis didn’t have to look at Jesse to get his reaction; he could almost feel the ripple of excitement arc off his body.

Gibralter tossed a folder on the desk. “The prelims from Fred’s shanty are back. The black spots were grease, the stuff they use to lube cars. They found a greasy shoe print, too, size ten. Check to see if it matches the one found on Pryce’s porch.”

“Is there any doubt?” Jesse asked.

Gibralter ignored him. “They’re positive the ice hole was enlarged by the chain saw on the wall. The blood in the chair was Fred’s and they figure he was shot while he was sitting there.”

Louis watched for some emotion in Gibralter’s face but there was none. He found himself wondering if he himself could maintain such control.

“From the trajectory angle, they estimate the height of the shooter at five-nine, assuming he held the shotgun at his waist, dead in front of him,” Gibralter went on.

“What if he held it at his eye, chief?” Jesse asked.

“Then the fucker would be about three foot tall, Harrison.”

Jesse flushed with color.

“They finish printing the shanty and cabin?” Louis asked.

“Not yet. There’s a dozen latents in both places. I doubt we’ll find our killer’s prints in that shanty, though.”

“What about the junk in the cabin?” Louis said.

“Cornwall and Evans are handling that.”

Louis started to mention the mail and his theory about the date of death but the chief pressed on.

“I want you two to talk to every inhabitant on that end of the lake and find out if anyone saw anything. Check with Elton at the bait shop and anyone else out there who might help.”

“Chief-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Harrison. When you get through with that I want you to check out every stinking cocksucker we ever busted in this town and find out what he’s doing now.”

“Case files?” Jesse asked.

Gibralter nodded, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray. Apparently, the chief had not caught the dismay in Jesse’s voice, Louis noted. Jesse was envisioning something more exciting than sifting through dusty file cabinets.