P Tracy: Snow Blind

‘Maybe. We’ve got lots of fresh bark confetti, and as far as I know, beavers hibernate, so we’re hoping for a slug.’

‘Pull some guys from the field and widen the grid around the trail a few hundred yards. Take a look at every tree.’

‘They’re on their way. We’ll keep you posted.’

Toby Myerson looked very much like his Second Precinct partner, right down to the skis and the yellow rope that held him upright against another trail marker, but this man’s right arm hung at an awkward angle, and the sleeve of his ski suit was shredded and stained almost black.

Magozzi stood quietly, moving only his eyes, taking it all in. ‘That arm wound had to have bled like crazy. So where’s the blood?’

Jimmy actually smiled at him. ‘Good question, Grasshopper. We uncovered a little that filtered down through the snow, but not enough. My guess is he didn’t take the arm shot here. We’re looking for a blood trail between the two snowmen.’

Gino nodded. ‘No glove on the right hand. You find it around here?’

‘Nope.’

‘Did you test the hand for GSR?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Huh. So he never got a shot off, but he sure as hell tried.’

Jimmy frowned at him. ‘How do you figure that?’

Gino poked at his forehead with his big mitten. ‘I see it right here, that’s how. Two guys skiing together right after the first snow, bad guy jumps out from behind a tree and pops Deaton, Myerson sees his partner buy it, rips his glove off to get at his weapon, but before he can get a shot off, the killer nails him in the shooting arm and he loses his piece.’

Magozzi rolled his eyes, but Jimmy looked fascinated. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Poor Myerson tries to get away, that’s what, pumping away with his good arm, but he only makes it this far before he bleeds out.’

Jimmy Grimm looked at Magozzi. ‘Where does he get this stuff?’

‘He makes it up. Does it all the time. Only this time, I think he’s got something. It makes sense.’

Grimm nodded solemnly. ‘Except for one thing. He didn’t bleed out. The arm shot shattered the bone, but it wasn’t lethal.’ He walked around the pole Toby Myerson was lashed to and pointed to a small hole in the back of the dead man’s neck. ‘The son of a bitch chased this man down and put a bullet right through his spine. Doesn’t look like a killing shot, but it probably paralyzed him instantly.’

Gino frowned. ‘Then what killed him?’

Grimm looked away and shrugged. ‘Who knows? You’ll have to wait until the doc gets inside to find that out. Could have been a heart attack, could have been hypothermia, massive organ failure…’

‘Jesus,’ Magozzi whispered. ‘Are you saying he could have been alive while they were building a snowman around him?’

‘Maybe. Maybe even for a long time after that.’

Magozzi closed his eyes.

Harley Davidson’s mansion looked as if it had been styled for a Currier and Ives Christmas card reproduction. Normally it looked foreboding from the street, but dressed with fresh snow and the holiday decorations he had yet to take down, the place looked more like a fairy-tale gingerbread castle than the red-stone lair of Summit Avenue’s biker-ogre. Even the wicked spikes that topped the wrought-iron fence looked whimsical with their white mushroom caps of snow. A tasteful display of twinkle lights sparkled along the eaves of the carriage house, and a lovingly restored, antique sleigh sat in front of the big wooden barn doors, as if waiting for a handsome team of harness horses to be hitched up.

Except at Harley’s, horsepower had a whole different meaning, and the carriage house was really a tricked-out garage; anybody who looked inside would get the Currier and Ives fantasy blown right out of their mind. But all the priceless cars and motorcycles and the big luxury motorcoach Monkeewrench used as a sort of traveling Crime Stoppers unit were all tucked away under blankets and tarps, waiting for warmer weather and dry roads. And it was driving Harley nuts.

At the big house, in the third-floor Monkee-wrench office, lights were blazing. The leather-clad lord of the manor was stationed at his mammoth desk, polishing off the last of his Carnivore Special from a local pizza parlor, while Roadrunner paced the floor with a clipboard, reading aloud from a punch list. His gangly, six-foot-seven frame was clad in a white Lycra bike suit today, and Harley thought he looked like an origami crane.

‘Clean up graphics on level two,’ Roadrunner recited.

Harley gave him a distracted nod while he mopped tomato sauce out of his black beard. ‘I’m working on it now.’

Roadrunner made a meticulous checkmark on his list and continued. ‘Okay. Fonts are inconsistent on -’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m working on that, too.’

‘Improve load speed between levels three and four.’

‘That’s your problem, buddy – my level transitions work just fine.’

Roadrunner gave him a grumpy look. ‘You haven’t even started writing code for your levels yet.’

‘I know that, but when I do, they’ll be perfect. What else?’

Roadrunner was still annoyed, but he turned back to his list without comment. ‘There are some minor glitches that carried over from the beta version, but it looks like Annie and Grace have those covered… oh. Here’s one. In all caps: HARLEY. DRESS THE DAMN ICE PRINCESS.’

Harley glowered at him. ‘Who wrote that? Annie?’

‘The Ice Princess needs clothes, Harley.’

‘She’s dressed already.’

‘She’s wearing a bikini.’

‘Like I said, she’s dressed. That’s PG material.’

‘This is supposed to be a children’s spelling game. Ages five to ten. It’s totally inappropriate.’

Harley spun his chair around and stared out the window. ‘Look at that. They haven’t plowed yet. You know, nothing says we can’t go out and buy a couple sleds right now and shred Summit Avenue.’

‘Are you going to take care of the Ice Princess or not? Because if you don’t want to do it, I will.’

‘Great, then she’ll end up looking like Lance Armstrong.’

Roadrunner’s cheeks flared red and for a moment, Harley was certain he was going to chuck his freshly sharpened pencil at his head.

‘Christ, Roadrunner, relax. Okay, I’ll dress her in a turtleneck, a nun’s habit, whatever you say.’

‘And you can’t impale the Snow Pixies on icicles when the kids spell a word wrong.’

‘That was a joke. Would you just take it easy? This is supposed to be fun, remember? At least that’s what you keep telling me, but you’re taking things way too seriously.’

‘This is serious. It’s for a good cause, Harley. The proceeds from this game are going to help out a lot of kids who need a safe place to go after school, and you know from personal experience how important that is. We all do – that’s why we picked this charity in the first place, remember?’

‘Kiss my ass, of course I remember. And I’m damn happy to do it, and all the other pro bono stuff. But this is the kind of programming I can do in my sleep. Plain and simple? I’m bored.’

Roadrunner sighed, moped over to his own desk, and slumped into his chair. ‘I know what you mean. But we all agreed we needed to take a few months off after the Four Corners thing. Plus, we can’t take the rig on the road in this weather.’

‘I know, but I’m ready for some action. Hey, what do you say we send out our virus and shut down a couple spammers?’

Roadrunner gave him a disapproving look. ‘Spam isn’t illegal. If we get caught, we go to jail.’

‘You know what I got in my in-box this morning? A spam that said “Dikkie 2 small? Not UR falt!” That should be illegal.’