Dead of Winter (39 page)

“Nice place,” Delp said, stirring his coffee.

Louis ignored him, motioning to the bartender to bring another cup.

“Where you been?” Delp asked. “I called the station.”

“Therapy.”

“Oh, yeah. How’s it going?”

“Fine.” The bartender set a mug of coffee in front of Louis. Louis stirred in three sugars and took a sip. He grimaced and pushed it away.

“Okay, what’s with the secrecy?” Delp asked. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”

“I need a favor,” Louis said.

Delp studied him for a moment. “What?”

“Do you know anyone at a newspaper in Chicago?”

“Got a buddy at the
Tribune.
Why?”

“Somebody who’s been around a while, maybe on the police beat?”

Delp leaned forward. “This is about Gibralter, isn’t it?”

Louis tightened. He sure hoped he could trust this asshole. “I want to know why he left Chicago.”

“Why?”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Where you going with this?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Not yet, you mean.”

Louis hesitated. “All right. Not yet.”

Delp shook his head. “Promises, promises.”

“Look, Delp, can you help me or not?”

Delp shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Louis started to get off the stool. “I have to get back.”

“Hey, wait,” Delp said. “I got something for you.”

“What?”

Delp hoisted a beat-up leather briefcase onto the bar and pulled out a manila envelope. “The photos you asked for, the leftovers from the raid. I found some extras in the morgue.”

Louis slid back onto the stool. He opened the envelope and sorted through the black-and-white photographs. It was just standard newspaper stuff -- shots of the cabin, the backyard, a sliding glass door, a broken window. There was a photo that showed an indentation in the snow that looked like a snow angel splashed with black that he recognized finally as the spot where Johnny Lacey fell after being shot.

“Nothing here,” Louis said, setting them down.

“Try these,” Delp said, holding out a second envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Postmortems.”

“I already saw them,”

Delp slipped out a stack of photos. “Not all of them. I found some stuff that didn’t get printed the first time.”

“How do you know?”

“Photographers use a hole punch to notch the edge of the negatives they want to print,” Delp said. “These weren’t notched.”

Louis sifted slowly through the photos. Many were just different angles of those he had already seen but he paused at one. It was a close-up of a hand, life-size but still small and delicate, obviously Angela’s hand. It was palm down, fingers splayed, and across the back between the first set of knuckles and the wrist, was a half-circle bruise. He knew he had not seen this picture in the case file. Why had it been left out?

“That one’s weird, isn’t it?” Delp said, sipping his coffee. “What you think that bruise is?”

Louis said nothing.

“Looks like maybe someone stepped on her hand with a boot heel,” Delp said. “Or maybe it’s a horseshoe?”

Louis started to stack the photographs but Delp laid a hand on them. “Something else,” Delp said. “Did you notice the initials on the raid photographs?”

Louis picked up a print and turned it over. He hadn’t bothered to look at the initials the first time. “A.R. Who’s A.R.?” he asked.

“Arnie Rogers.”

“So what?”

“So don’t you think it’s strange that Arnie took the crime-scene photos?”

“Common in small towns.”

Delp shook his head. “I checked other files. Gibralter always had his men do the pics, before the raid and after.”

Louis was silent, remembering that Ollie had been the photographer at the Lovejoy scene.

“And get this,” Delp said. “I found out a local doc by the name of Boggs did the autopsies. Don’t you think that’s strange, too?”

Louis slipped the photographs into the envelope, not wanting Delp to know that he did think it was strange. Why hadn’t Gibralter called in Ralph Drexler, the country medical examiner?

Picking up the envelope, Louis slid off the stool and tossed a five on the bar. “Listen, Delp,” he said, “Don’t call me at the station.”

“What’s the matter? Things getting rough there?”

“Just don’t call.”

“What if I get something on Gibralter?”

“I’ll call you. When?”

Delp shrugged. “Can’t say, man. Haven’t talked to my bud in Chicago in a long time. He might have forgotten all about me.”

Louis resisted the urge to say something smart. He started for the door.

“Hey, Kincaid,” Delp called, and nodded toward the envelope in Louis’s hand. “A thank-you would be nice, you know.”

“You’ll get your thanks,” Louis said.

“Promises, promises,” Delp mumbled.

Louis sifted again through the autopsy photos then slipped them back in their manila envelope. He placed the envelope in his desk drawer under some other papers and locked it.

He glanced up at the clock. Four-thirty, still a half hour until shift end. His first day back and he was already going crazy from riding a damn desk. He glanced down at the cardboard box. But no matter what Gibralter threatened to do, he wasn’t going to take down the damn Christmas crap.

He looked at Gibralter’s door. The office was locked and dark. Gibralter had gone home early for once.

“Jim!”

Louis swung around at the sound of Steele’s voice. He was standing at the wall map. An aide hurried to his side.

“How many men we have out there today?” Steele asked.

“Three dozen, sir.”

“Is Chopper One up?”

“Not yet. Fuel line problem.”

“Call Lansing. Get another.”

Steele picked up a yellow highlighter and marked off an area on the map. Louis assumed it was an area that had already been searched. He heard a snort from Florence, who was incensed Steele had marked up the map.

Steele went back to the command desk and sifted through some papers. His face looked a little haggard, lines visible around the black eyes.

“Jim, did you get that Lacey background I asked for?” Steele asked.

The aide thrust out a thin folder. Steele scanned it and dropped it on the desk. “This is just his rap sheet,” Steele said, his voice edged with irritation.

Louis watched the exchange, thinking about the thick Dollar Bay file. The phone on the command desk rang. Steele picked it up and started arguing with someone about getting more tracking dogs.

Louis rose and went to the coffeepot. He poured out a cup, and leaned against the wall, his gaze wandering over the command desk. He spotted the case files for Pryce and Lovejoy, the two playing cards, encased in plastic, stapled to each.

He wondered what kind of legal arm-twisting Steele had gone through to get Gibralter to relinquish them. But Steele had no reason to know about the Dollar Bay file, and obviously, Gibralter had not volunteered it. Well, if he was going to help Steele, this was as good a place as any to start.

Steele finished his call. He sensed Louis’s presence and turned, a flash of impatience on his face.

“Yes?”

“I overheard you talking about Lacey’s background.”

“So?”

“There’s a file on Lacey compiled by the cops in Dollar Bay. It’s got everything you need.”

“Where is it?

“You’ll have to ask Gibralter.”

Steele studied Louis. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Lacey’s ex-military, knows how to survive outdoors. You’ll need everything you can get to find him.”

Steele smirked. “I suppose you think you know him.”

“I know he’s gone to see his son. I think the kid knows where his father is.”

Steele’s eyes drifted down to Louis’s name badge.

“I also know he’s got a good motive,” Louis added.

Steele paused then fished out a folder from the pile on the desk. Louis saw the case number and knew it was the raid file.

“I read all about his motive,” Steele said, waving the file.
“You
gave him motive. You should have been able to talk those kids out of that cabin.”

Louis bit back his anger. For a second, he wanted to spit it right back in Steele’s self-satisfied face that he agreed with him. But as he stared at the file in Steele’s hand he realized it was thin, too thin. The original was at least an inch thick.

Steele tossed the file on the desk and turned away.

Louis could see Gibralter not giving Steele the Dollar Bay file, just to piss Steele off. But why withhold information from the raid file?

“Excuse me,” Louis said.

Steele turned slowly.

Louis nodded toward the raid file. “That isn’t complete.”

“I chalked it up to your department’s incompetence.”

Louis tightened.
Asshole.

Steele was staring at him, as if trying to see inside his mind. “Officer,” he said quietly, “what are you trying to tell me?”

“Just that I’ve seen the complete file and that isn’t it,” Louis said.

“Are you saying Gibralter is withholding information?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s given me everything I asked for.”

“He didn’t give you the Dollar Bay file.”

Steele’s eyes went to the two aides hovering nearby and then to Florence. He gave Louis a nod to follow him. Louis hesitated then followed.

Outside, they stood by the door. It was cold, but no wind blowing. Two Loon Lake officers, just coming on night shift, eyed Louis as they passed. Louis looked away.

“All right, what’s going on here?” Steele asked, waving the file.

Suddenly Louis wasn’t sure
what
exactly was going on, at least as far as his own motive. No matter what he thought about Gibralter, he was still his chief. Did he really want to put the reputations of other cops on the line because he was pissed at him?

“Officer, you’re wasting my time,” Steele said.

But Louis was almost certain that Gibralter had left something out of the file he gave to Steele. Anyone reading Gibralter’s report of the raid, and those of the other men, would say the Loon Lake cops had acted in self-defense. But it was also possible to see their actions as overly aggressive. In fact, in a larger department the raid would have routinely gone to internal affairs for investigation. Gibralter knew that; he had worked in a big city department. But Gibralter also knew Steele had made a career out of carving up cops. Was he just trying to protect himself and his men from Steele?

Be careful, Kincaid. You don’t know what’s going on here.

“Officer?”

Louis met Steele’s eyes. “I am not sure but I think the original file might contain something that could be misconstrued or —- ”

“Are you suggesting Chief Gibralter has a reason, other than his personal dislike of me, to withhold information?”

“Look, I don’t know —- ”

“What do you know?”

Louis shook his head. Man, this guy was a prick.

“You show your chief little respect, Officer Kincaid,” Steele said.

Louis stared at him. This wasn’t going right at all.

Steele started back and then turned to Louis. “You telling me about the Dollar Bay file and Cole Lacey is appreciated,” he said. “But if you have a problem with your chief, deal with it. Don’t use it to bullshit yourself into my good graces.

Louis flushed with embarrassment and anger.

Steele went inside.

Louis stood there, staring at the streetlights. They flickered on in the quickly darkening dusk. Now he had lost Steele, too. He went back in.

He glanced at the command desk. Two aides were there but Steele was gone, apparently leaving by the locker room back door. Louis looked over at Florence. She was staring at him oddly.

This was nuts. He was going nuts. He had to get out of here. He hurried into the locker room to change. He emerged and was halfway out the door when he heard Florence calling his name.

“Louis! Telephone!”

He paused, hand on the door. “Who is it?”

“A man. Wouldn’t tell me his name.”

Louis came back and picked up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s Delp.”

Louis sank into his chair. “Look, man, I told you —- ”

“I know. I didn’t tell the old biddy who I was. Jesus, what’s with you?”

“What do you want?”

“I got what you asked for.”

Louis sat up straighter. “That was quick,” he said.