Dead of Winter (32 page)

“We also found out Lacey checked into a motel down near Rose City on November 30 but the search turned up nothing.”

“And since then?” Gibralter asked.

“No sign of him.”

“He’s trained in wilderness survival skills,” Louis ventured.

“How do you know?” Gibralter asked.

Louis quickly summarized Lacey’s military record and the other information from Dollar Bay. “It’s in my report,” he said, holding it out.

Gibralter took it, scanned it and tossed it on the desk behind him. He went to the wall map, studying it. “Lacey isn’t from here. He doesn’t know this area,” he said. “If he’s holed up somewhere he has help.”

Louis’s eyes went to the county map on the wall behind Gibralter, to the large, amoeba-like blob of green that was the Huron National Forest. Lacey was in there somewhere and they would never find him. To them, it was a foreign and hostile place; to Lacey it was shelter.

“What about his son?” Louis asked. “He’s lived here and Lacey visited him at Red Oak. The kid wrote to him, too.”

“Then that’s where you go next, the kid. I want you two up there today to question him.”

Louis’s eyes flitted to the map again. Even if Cole Lacey did know something, nine small-town police officers didn’t have a prayer of finding Lacey without help.

“Chief, I have a question,” Louis said. “Are you going to request assistance from the state?”

Gibralter gazed at him through the cigarette smoke haze. “We’ll handle this ourselves,” he said. “That’s what good departments do, they take care of their own problems. They don’t need outsiders.”

Louis could feel a faint pounding in his head, the lingering effect of the booze and the beginning of a headache. He resisted the urge to rub his temples and the urge to say what he was thinking, that this was no time for a territorial pissing match between Gibralter and this guy Steele. Unconsciously, he let a sigh slip.

“Do you have a problem with what I just said?” Gibralter asked.

“No, sir.”

Gibralter’s icy stare seemed to drill into his head, hitting the pounding place in his brain.

“There’s something else on your mind, Kincaid. What is it?”

Louis hesitated. “Lovejoy’s phone records came back.”

“And?”

“They show he made a call to your home at ten-thirty p.m. the night before he was killed.”

“So?”

“So,” Louis said carefully, “I was curious about why you didn’t mention it.”

Louis heard Jesse draw in a slow breath.

“I didn’t mention it because I never got the call,” Gibralter said.

Louis hesitated, knowing he was about to get his head chopped off. Shit, at least it would stop the headache. “Someone got the call,” he said. “It was four minutes long.”

Gibralter’s eyes didn’t waver. “I have a wife, Kincaid. Maybe they chatted for a few minutes.”

Louis lowered his eyes.

“So, if we are done discussing Lacey,” Gibralter said, “I have something I want to take up with you, Kincaid.”

Louis tightened. Now what?

Gibralter went to the credenza and took one of the swords off the wall. “This is a samurai sword,” he said. “Do you know why I have it here, Kincaid?”

Louis felt Jesse shift nervously at his side. “No, sir,” Louis said.

“I keep it to remind myself of what honor is. We spoke of honor once, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Louis said.

Gibralter’s hand traveled over the ornate hilt. “The samurai code was a simple one,” he said. “The business of a samurai consisted of reflecting on his station in life, in discharging loyal service to his master and in deepening the trust and fidelity of his fellow warriors.”

Gibralter looked at Louis. “You think maybe a samurai might have something to teach a cop?”

“I’m sure he would,” Louis said. Where the hell was this going?

Gibralter carefully set the sword back in its holder. “I spoke to a man named Bob Roberts today. Name ring a bell?”

The hairs on Louis’s arms came alive and he was suddenly aware of his heartbeat. It was moving up, mixing with the pounding in his head. “Can we discuss this in private?” he said.

“No. I think this is something Officer Harrison should hear.”

“Sir, this —- ”

“We are under siege, Kincaid,” Gibralter said. “Any man on this force can take a bullet for you at any time. I think they should know how you plan to repay them.”

Suddenly, Louis knew what was coming, and there was no way he was going to be able to explain it.

“Officer Kincaid spent a couple of interesting days in Mississippi federal court last year, didn’t you?” Gibralter said.

“Yes,” Louis said.

“Officer Kincaid testified against another police officer by the name of Lawrence Cutter. What were the charges, Officer Kincaid?”

“Civil rights violations,” Louis said.

“What’d he do, Officer Kincaid? Call you a jigaboo?” Gibralter asked.

Louis went rigid. “Larry Cutter —- ”

“Shut the fuck up when I’m talking to you!” Gibralter shouted.

Louis felt a tremor rush through his body, a signal of the rage building inside. He didn’t want Jesse to hear this without knowing the truth. He turned to him.

“Jess, the man tried to kill me. He tried to hang —- ”

“I don’t care what he did!” Gibralter interrupted. “You turned on your own and cops don’t turn on their own!”

“Sir, I think —- ” Jesse said quietly.

“No, you don’t!” Gibralter snapped.

Louis glared at Gibralter. “Are you firing me?”

Gibralter shook his head. “I have no intention of making it easy for you. If you leave here it will be because you quit or because your stupidity gets you killed.”

“Jesus, Chief,” Jesse whispered hoarsely.

“That’s enough.”

For a long moment it was quiet in the office. From outside came the murmur of the other morning-shift men, punctuated by the ring of the telephone. Finally, Gibralter turned away from them.

“Dismissed,” he said.

They rode in silence. Louis drove, his hands locked on the wheel, his eyes never wavering from the road. The snow had given way to sleet and Louis flicked on the wipers to keep the windshield from icing over. For a half hour, the silence between them built, like ice on glass. It was Jesse who finally broke it.

“Tell me about this cop.”

Louis shook his head. “Forget it. It was a thousand miles away, a thousand years ago.”

“Louis, for crissake, tell me.”

“I said forget it. I have.”

“Right. That’s why the veins are popping out of your temples. Tell me, damn it, why’d this guy try to hang you?”

“You heard enough.”

Louis stared straight ahead. They were heading southwest, passing through farmlands, flat acres of white nothingness that blended with the slate-gray sky.

“What? You think because I’m white I can’t understand? Is that it?” Jesse asked.

Louis glanced at him then looked back at the road.

Jesse let out a snort. “Man, you’re fucked up, you know it? You’re emotionally constipated and it’s fucked up your head and now you’re transferring your anger.”

“Spare me your psycho-crap,” Louis said.

“You’re angry at the chief and you’re transferring it to me.”

“Bullshit.”

Louis turned the wipers up a notch. They rode in silence for another ten miles until Jesse gave him directions to turn.

“Chief has ordered us all to double up,” Jesse said.

“On patrol?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. Did it while you were away. Says he doesn’t want anyone riding alone right now.”

Louis nodded. At least Gibralter was finally taking precautions to protect his men. He glanced at Jesse, wondering if he should try to explain about Larry Cutter. What was the use? Even if Jesse understood the other men wouldn’t. And Gibralter would make sure every last man on the force found out. What the hell was the matter with the man? Was this part of some plan to break him just because he had let Lacey go? Or was it just because he had challenged him on the Lacey kids, the call from Lovejoy and about getting outside help?

“Somebody said you found letters from Cole,” Jesse said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yeah, in Lacey’s room,” Louis said.

“What did they say?” Jesse asked.

“Not much. He’s proud of his dad for, quote, killing that nigger, unquote.”

Jesse shook his head. “Guess the kid hasn’t gotten any smarter.”

“What you mean?”

“I busted him once when he was about eleven for shoplifting. He had a smart mouth then, too.”

Louis tried to conjure up an image of Cole at eleven. The only thing that came to him was the five-year-old Cole with the cigarette burns on his back.

“He was abused. Did you know that?” Louis asked.

“So what? Plenty of abused kids turn out okay,” Jesse said.

“Well, it kind of puts a different spin on —- ”

“It’s no excuse for being an asshole,” Jesse said. He shook his head. “I hate that kind of talk. It’s crap, like the chief said about the vets blaming everything on post-traumatic stress. It’s like nobody wants to take responsibility for their actions anymore.”

Louis bit back his thought, that Jesse could be talking about his own temper.

They survived the rest of the drive on a diet of small talk about the case. It was eleven-thirty by the time Louis turned the Bronco under an iron arch that said RED OAK CORRECTIONS FACILITY FOR BOYS. The road cut a wet black ribbon through the high drifts, leading to an ugly Kleenex-box building in the middle of a treeless field of snow. The compound was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. In the distance were some basketball hoops. Jesse looked back at the gate as it closed behind them.

At the entrance, Louis pushed the button. The guard peered at them through the glass door and he buzzed them in. After signing them in the guard directed them down a gloomy corridor to a door marked WARDEN LITTLE.

“Officers Kincaid and Harrison to see Warden Little,” Louis told the secretary. “He’s expecting us.”

She buzzed, and a moment later, a small bald man in a gray suit came out of his office.

“Officers,” Warden Little said, greeting them with a weak smile and weaker handshake. “Can I offer you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Louis said. “We’d like to see Cole Lacey.”

“No problem. I’ve secured Cole in our visitor lounge. We find it’s more conductive to getting the boys to relax. It’s comforting to them to have some homey surroundings.”

“Cole Lacey’s comfort level is no concern of ours, Warden,” Jesse said, following Little down the hall.

Warden Little glanced at him as he pressed the elevator button. “Well, we won’t argue the sociological fine points of juvenile crime, officer. But let me assure you many of my boys here are victims, just like those you seek justice for.”

“Tell that to Stephanie Pryce,” Jesse muttered as they entered the elevator.

“Pardon?” Little said.

“We have reason to believe that Cole Lacey’s father killed two police officers,” Louis said.

“I see. That reminds me.” Little reached in his breast pocket. “Here’s the visitors log you asked for.”

Louis took the paper, straining to read it without his glasses. Finally he handed it to Jesse.

“Here it is,” Jesse said. “Lacey was here on November 11. One day after getting out of Marquette. He was here again on Christmas Eve.”

The elevator deposited them on the second floor. A muscular guard in a khaki uniform stood by a door, his arms crossed, a baton and cuffs hanging from a gun-less belt. His nameplate said HAYNES. He unlocked the door and advised them to knock when they wanted out. Louis waited until Little had left before turning to Jesse.

“My way, right?” Louis asked quietly.

“Scout’s honor.”

They went inside, the heavy door locking behind them. The pale blue room was small and it reeked of pine air freshener. The small single window was hung with flowered curtains, frost visible between the bars. At the table in the center of the room sat a slender teenager. He wore the regulation blue pants and a denim shirt, which ballooned around his thin chest. His dark head was bowed, his bony hands clasped together on the table, his legs wrapped around the metal folding chair.

Louis cleared his throat.

Cole Lacey’s moved from Louis’s shoes up over his uniform to his face. As they skipped over to Jesse Cole’s posture changed slowly from the languidness of an arrogant teenager to a stiffness that Louis read as fear.

Cole stood up and slowly moved around the back of the chair, like an alley cat trying to sidle away from predators. “What do you guys want?” he asked.