Dead of Winter (22 page)

Jesse hit the brakes.

“What the — ” Louis spat out, bracing against the dash.

Jesse slammed the cruiser into reverse, backed onto the shoulder and turned around. “There’s a red Ford. An old one.”

As Jesse swung in the parking lot, Louis squinted at the truck. It was an older model, the paint fading, the lower sides pocked with rust. They parked behind the truck and got out. Louis circled the truck, peering in the dirty windows while Jesse ran the plate.

“It returns to a Mildred Cronk of Dollar Bay, Houghton County,” Jesse said, coming up to his side.

“Where’s that?” Louis asked.

“Upper Peninsula.”

“Long way from home.”

“No warrants.”

Louis looked at the bar. “Well, guess we better go find Millie.”

Inside Jo-Jo’s, a fetid brew of smells greeted them — beer, cigarettes, fried fish and urine. From a dark corner came Freddie Fender’s twangy basso singing “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.” Jesse plunged into the murk, heading toward the bar. Louis stood just inside the door, blinking to get his pupils dilated enough to see.

At first, he saw only spots of color. A flicker of purple neon over the bar. The green glow of the pool table lighted by the plastic stained-glass Stroh’s sign above. The rainbow of the jukebox. Shadows gradually turned into men. The burly bartender, three men standing around the pool table, a cluster huddled at a table. They were all standing motionless and mute, watching, waiting. He felt his heart quicken. Something felt weird about this.

“Turn off the music,” Jesse called out.

The shadow behind the bar didn’t move.

“Turn off the damn music,” Jesse repeated.

The bartender still didn’t move. Jesse went to the jukebox and gave it a sharp kick. The needle ripped across the record and stopped, plunging the tavern into silence.

“Who’s driving the red Ford pickup outside?” Jesse demanded.

No one moved.

“Look, you stupid motherfuckers, I asked you a question.”

A soft rumbling came from the men at the pool table. Jesse started slowly toward them and Louis suppressed a sigh, his muscles tightening in anticipation. A crazy image flashed into his head: Dean Martin in “Rio Bravo”
,
just before he shot a guy hiding in the rafters.

“Anyone in here named Cronk?” Jesse asked, his voice rising. When no one answered Jesse turned to Louis and started to say something but he stopped. Louis saw Jesse’s eyes flick to something behind him.

Suddenly, Jesse bolted past him and disappeared into a dark hallway.

“What’s down there?” Louis yelled to the bartender.

“Just the can,” the man said. “And the back door!”

Louis ran down the hall. He heard a crash and knew Jesse had kicked open a door. He came to a stop as a rush of cold air hit him in the face. The rear door hung open. Jesse and a man were slogging through drifts, heading toward the woods. Louis ran after them, grabbing his radio from his belt.

“Central! Central! This is L-11. We are in a foot pursuit of a white male — ”

The suspect was heading toward a barbed-wire fence that ran the length of the field. No way the man could get away now. But then Louis watched in dismay as the man hurdled the fence and kept going toward the woods. Jesse tried to jump the fence, caught his pant leg and tumbled to the snow on the other side, his feet tangled in the wire.

Louis caught up, grabbed the top wire and swung his legs over. The man was almost to the woods. Louis drew his gun.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The suspect froze and threw his hands in the air. Louis hurried over to the man. “Don’t move,” Louis ordered.

Jesse trotted up, limping and panting.When he grabbed the man’s hand to cuff him and the man started to struggle.

“Don’t fight me, asshole,” Jesse said, twisting his arm.

“I’m not.”

An army jacket hung loosely on the man’s small frame. He had stringy yellow hair and tight leathery skin lined with fine wrinkles. Narrow, pale gray eyes stared back at Louis.

Jesse shoved him and the man fell. “Who are you?”

The man stared up at Jesse coolly.

“Answer me!”

“Jess, check for a wallet,” Louis said.

Jesse patted him down. He pulled out a paper and a set of keys but no wallet. He handed them to Louis.

Louis unfolded the paper. It looked to be a letter. Louis stuck it in his back pocket with the keys.

“Where’s your ID?” Louis asked.

“Don’t got one,” The man mumbled.

“What’s your name?” Louis asked.

“Maybe I ain’t got one of those either.”

“Don’t play games!” Jesse said, reaching for the man’s collar.

Louis quickly stepped between them. Louis’s radio went off. Florence calling for a status check. “Jess, answer that,” Louis said.

Jesse reluctantly called back that they had the subject in custody and clicked off. Louis had the man firmly by his arm and was guiding him toward the cruiser. He noticed Jesse’s ripped pants.

“You’re bleeding,” Louis said, nodding toward Jesse’s thigh.

Jesse looked down at the six-inch gash in his pants. It was soaked dark red. Suddenly, he hit the man’s shoulder, sending him stumbling forward out of Louis’s grasp and down into the snow.

“You asshole! See what you did?”

“Jess!” Louis grabbed the suspect’s arm and pulled him to his feet. He could feel the man’s arm through the jacket, sinewy with muscle.

“What’s your name, you stinkin’ piece of shit?” Jess demanded.

“Harrison!” Louis said sharply.

Jesse glared at Louis.

“You’re bleeding.” Louis said slowly, enunciating each syllable. “Go back to the car.”

Jesse didn’t move.

“Now,” Louis said.

Jesse held Louis’s eyes for a second longer then he turned and limped off through the snow.

Louis gave the man’s arm a jerk. “Name,” he demanded.

“John Smith.”

Louis sighed and shoved the man toward the parking lot. “Okay, John Smith. Let’s go.”

Jesse was in the cruiser, trying to wrap his leg with a roll of gauze from the first-aid kit. Louis put the suspect in the back and got in, starting the car. He looked down at Jesse’s leg. The barbed wire had left a deep gash several inches long in his thigh. Jesse was sweating.

“You want me to call EMS?” Louis asked.

“Fuck, no,” Jesse said, not looking up. “Just get me to the damn emergency room.”

Louis pulled out of the lot, radioing they were coming back with the suspect. Jesse sat stone-faced, occasionally pulling off new sections of gauze to dab at his cut. Louis looked in the rearview mirror and caught the eyes of the suspect. The man’s face was dirty, his hair was wet from the snow.

“Why the hell you arrest me?” he demanded. He had a weird accent, even stranger than the usual Michigan twang.

Louis didn’t answer.

“I ain’t done nothing.”

Jesse turned to glare at him. “Listen, you stupid Yooper, you shut that fucking trap of yours or you’re gonna be eating those teeth.”

Louis watched the man’s face in the mirror. The man stared at Jesse for several seconds then slumped down in the seat, turning his face away to stare blankly out at the snow.

Louis dropped Jesse off at the emergency room entrance of the hospital. When he reached the station five minutes later, Dale was waiting for him just inside the front door. He watched as Louis helped “John Smith” out of the cruiser and trailed behind as Louis led the suspect inside.

“Who is it?” Dale asked.

“I don’t know yet.” He told him to send someone out to retrieve the red Ford truck in Jo-Jo’s parking lot.

“Red truck?” Dale asked. “You think — ”

“Don’t know yet,” Louis said.

“What do I book him on?” Dale asked, his gaze sliding uneasily over the suspect.

“Attempting to elude, for now.”

As Dale led the man to the back, Louis shrugged out of his jacket and went to his desk. He fell into the chair and took a deep breath. The idea that they had lucked into finding the right truck was too much to hope for. But the description fit, and the man was about five-foot-nine, the estimated height of Lovejoy’s killer.

Louis glanced toward the glass that separated the booking room from the office. Smith had taken off his army jacket. Louis was surprised to see how small he was underneath. He looked like someone had placed a hand on his head and squashed him down a few inches. His legs bowed outward, but his chest and shoulders, outlined beneath his thin T-shirt, were rock hard with muscle.

Louis rose and went to the booking room door, crossing his arms. Smith glanced at him as Dale took his prints.

“I ain’t done nothing,” he said.

“Then why’d you run?”

Smith shrugged.

“You’re not scoring very high on the brain meter here,” Louis said. “Why won’t you tell us who you are? You got warrants?”

Smith shook his head as Dale rocked his inky fingers on the print card.

“We’re going to find out anyway.”

Smith sighed. “Okay, okay. Can we talk alone?”

Louis nodded to Dale to leave. “Okay, talk,” Louis said, closing the door.

“My name is Duane Lacey. I’m on parole. I’m not supposed to be out of Houghton County without permission.”

“Who owns the truck?”

“My mother.” He wiped a strand of dirty blond hair off his forehead. “I thought you guys wanted me for parole violation.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Seeing my kid.”

“Where’s he?”

“Red Oak juvie center. That’s a few miles — ”

“I know where it is. When did you get here?”

“Yesterday. I was heading there this afternoon. They only let you visit afternoons.” Lacey moved to the bench and sat down. “I ain’t seen him in years. His mother took him.”

“Sad story,” Louis said.

“Look, I’m telling you the truth. Look at that letter you took off me. It’s from my kid.”

Louis reached in his back pants pocket and took out the page of loose-leaf paper which began:
Dear Dad.

Louis opened the door to look for Dale, wanting him to run Lacey’s name for warrants. Dale was nowhere to be seen.

“Who’s your parole officer?” Louis asked. and

“Bill James,” Lacey answered.

Louis pulled a pen from his pocket. “All right, Lacey, give me your social security number.” Lacey rattled it off and Louis started for the door.

“You ain’t gonna reach James at his office,” Lacey called after him. “It’s the holidays, you know.”

Louis picked up Lacey’s army jacket and left, locking the door. He gave Lacey’s number to Florence to run for outstanding warrants then went to his desk and dialed Dollar Bay information to get a home phone number for William James. Louis called him, and after apologizing for bothering him on the day after Christmas, he told him about Lacey.

James gave a short bitter laugh. “He ran on you? Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why?”

“He’s paranoid. Tells me all the time everybody’s out to get him. Hold on, gotta turn down the TV.”

Louis waited until he heard James pick up the phone again. “So, what did he do now?” James asked.

“Ran a light,” Louis said, deciding not to involve James until he had reason to.

James sighed. “Idiot’s not supposed to be out of Houghton. What’s he doing down there?”

“Says he’s visiting his son,” Louis said.

“Son? Oh, right, forgot. Lacey’s new to me so I don’t have all the background. I can tell you, though, he’s been a model citizen since he got out of prison.”

“When was that?”

“Real recent, but I’d have to check.” Louis sensed impatience in James’s voice, as though he wanted to get back to his television.

“What was he sent up for?” Louis asked.

“Tell you what. I’ll call the local P.D. and have them send you his sheet. The chief’s my cousin. What’s your fax number?”

Louis gave it to him. “One last question. Is Lacey dangerous?”

“Well, he’s weird,” James said, “but he’s always been polite to me. It’s Christmas, he probably just wanted to see his kid.”

Louis thanked him and hung up. He glanced at the letter in his hand and then looked back at Lacey, sitting quietly in the booking room. Turning his back, he unfolded the letter.

Dear Dad,

I know you haven’t probably gotten no letters from me since you went up but I was thinking maybe now that you was out maybe you might want to come and see me. I don’t know where mom went to. The last time I saw her she said she would give grandma her address so when I got out I could maybe come there. She said something about Florida. But I ain’t heard from Grandma neither. I understand maybe you won’t want to come all the way down here because its such a long drive and that’s cool if you don’t. Grandma never wanted to come neither and I’m really doing okay here. I mean I’m still alive so far. It sucks bad though.