Dead of Winter (9 page)

Zoe smiled and sat down on the far end of the sofa.

“Can I get you a drink?” He gestured toward the small refrigerator. “Haven’t got much. Beer? Some bad brandy?”

She shook her head.

He jumped to his feet. “Cocoa,” he said.

She hesitated then nodded. “All right. Cocoa.”

He went to the kitchen, pulling out a small pot and the can of Nestlé’s from the cupboard. He got out the milk carton and saw it was nearly empty. He poured what was left into the pot and added tap water. As he waited for it to heat, he glanced back at her. She was just sitting there, staring into the fire. He quickly stirred the lukewarm cocoa and brought it back to the living room.

She took the cup, cradling it in her hands, her eyes on him as he sat back down. He took a drink and grimaced.

“It’s terrible,” he said.

“It’s fine.” She glanced over his shoulder at the door. He sensed that she wanted to leave. He wasn’t going to let her, not if he could help it.

“So, tell me about your paintings,” he said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“My work is private. I find it hard to talk to strangers about it.” When she saw the look on his face, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. That sounded pretentious.”

“No, that’s all right,” Louis said quickly. “I understand.”

“Do you know the Beauman Gallery on Lake Shore Drive?”

“Never been to Chicago.”

“Oh...well, that’s who handles my work.”

The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. He was trying to decide whether to tell her he was a cop. He could never tell what sort of reaction that would draw from a woman. Some were intrigued, a few repulsed. Most were just puzzled. Zoe Devereaux, his instincts were telling him, needed only the smallest excuse to bolt and he didn’t want his badge to be it. He took a sip of cocoa, looking at her profile out of the corner of his eye.

Jesus, what a face. Not exactly beautiful, certainly not pretty. She was obviously mixed. But of what? A faint memory came to him in that instant. A memory of himself as a child, sitting on the worn wooden porch. A woman was brushing his hair. His mother? He couldn’t see her face. He saw the faces, though, of the three little black girls who stood barefoot in the dirt watching in fascination. Can we touch it? One asked shyly, can we touch his hair? It was the first time he realized he was different.

His eyes traveled to Zoe’s hair. It was almost dry now, forming a soft cascade of tight curls around her face. It was neither black nor brown exactly, but the color of the last leaves of fall, wet from the rain.

“You’re staring at me again.”

He smiled slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just — ”

“What?”

He shook his head. “It’s personal.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

He hesitated.

“My mother was Korean,” Zoe said evenly. “My father was black. Is that what you wanted to ask?”

Louis nodded. “You were born here?”

“No, in Korea. My mother died and I was in an orphanage for a year. Then one day this man showed up, this tall, black, American soldier. He told me he was my father. He took me to California.” Zoe leaned back against the sofa. “I was ten years old.”

“That’s incredible,” Louis said.

“What?”

“That he went back for you.”

She nodded then seemed to drift off to some private place. “I loved him,” she said after a moment. She looked up at him, her eyes warmed by the fire.

Louis waited, sensing she wanted to go on. He wanted her to, feeling that if she did the moment could last, maybe grow into something more. But she remained silent, her eyes vacant in the waning firelight. It occurred to him that she talked of her father in the past tense. He was dead and Louis had the feeling it was recent. She had the aura of a person in mourning, still tender to the touch.

“He passed away?” Louis asked gently.

She nodded, not looking at him.

Louis regretted asking the question. It had apparently taken her further into some private place.

“He was killed,” she said suddenly. “It was during the Watts riot. A sniper bullet.”

Louis drew in a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said softly.

“He was a policeman,” Zoe said.

“What?” he said.

“He was in one of the riot-control units. They surrounded his car. He couldn’t get out.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold. “He was black. It didn’t matter,” she said.

Louis leaned his head back against the sofa, shutting his eyes. When he looked back at her, she was staring at the fire.

He rose and walked slowly to the kitchen. He set the mug down and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring down into the sink.

“It’s late,” she said. “I’d better go.”

He turned to face her. She was standing by the door. She slipped on her running shoes, kneeling to lace them up. Louis came over to the door and reached for his jacket.

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

“It’s not necessary.”

“I want to.”

They said nothing as they trudged out through the snow to the Mustang, half-buried in a drift. Louis wanted to say something, anything to fill the chill void that had formed between them. He wanted this to move forward somehow. Despite what she had said. Despite what he was.

The Mustang started after several tries. “It’s an old car,” Louis said. “I never know what will happen. Sorry, there’s no heat.”

She nodded vigorously. “Take 44 north,” she said. “I’ll tell you when to turn.”

She said nothing after that. Louis made a few weak comments about the snow, the cold, the lake. But she remained silent. Finally, she directed him to turn onto a small side road and stop at the bottom of a hill.

“It’s steep. Your car won’t make it up. I’ll walk from here,” she said quickly.

She opened the door. Louis grabbed her left hand.

“I want to see you again,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” he pressed.

In the dim glow of the car’s overhead light, he could see something anxious cloud her face.

“I don’t know you,” she said. “And you don’t know me.”

“Okay, but I want to.” His hand tightened on hers.

She shook her head slowly.

“Let’s just try it,” Louis said.

She looked down at his hand. He felt her arm tense as she tried to pull away. He let go.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Zoe — ”

She got out of the car, started to close the door then stopped. She looked away, up the hill into the dark woods and then back at Louis.

“Do you run?” she asked.

“I used to in college. Cross-country.”

“What did you think about?”

Louis had only thought about winning the race but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. “Everything.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. When I run.”

Louis pulled the scarf up over his face against the blinding wind. Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he could make out the glow of the station house sign and breathed an icy sigh of relief. It was only a one mile walk from his cabin to the station, but Jesus, what a long damn mile.

He forged ahead, hurrying the last steps. Inside, he fell back against the glass. The warm air filled his lungs, sending a violent shiver through him.

Florence, the day-shift dispatcher, looked up from the desk. “Louis, are you all right?”

He nodded and slowly unwrapped his scarf. He could feel the ice melting off his eyebrows. For a moment he just stood, afraid his bones would snap if he moved.

“Did you walk to work?” Florence asked.

He nodded again and moved stiffly to the fireplace, pulling off his hardened leather gloves. “Car wouldn’t start.”

Florence went to the coffee urn. “For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you call someone?”

Louis watched her as she poured a cup of coffee. She was in her sixties, a frizz of white hair topping a willow-thin body. She looked like a Q-tip, a skinny negative to Edna’s rotund positive.

“No phone yet,” Louis said. He unzipped the jacket and let it drop off his arms.

Florence pressed a mug of coffee into his hands and held her bands over his for several seconds. She smelled like peppermint and her wrinkled hands were warm. “Next time, you radio in and Dale will give you a jump.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Louis sipped the coffee, closing his eyes as the warmth trickled through him. He was pouring a second cup when Dale came through the front door, offering a cheerful “good morning.” When Dale returned from the locker room, Louis was waiting at the grating of the evidence room.

“What are you doing here so early?” Dale asked.

“Couldn’t sleep. I need the Pryce file cabinet.”

Dale snapped the keys off his belt. “Sign the log and note the time.”

Louis went to the counter, flipped open the ledger and signed in.

“You want me to bring it out?” Dale asked.

“Grab me that stool. I’ll just stay in here.”

Dale slid a rolling stool over to him and Louis wheeled it into the small room. The ceiling-high plywood shelves towered over him, sagging with age and the weight of decades of boxed and bagged evidence. Everything was sealed with orange tape and dated with wrappers’ initials. On one shelf were confiscated weapons: broken guns, knives, power tools. Louis stood up to turn on the light. His eye caught a Ziploc bag with a pair of women’s panties inside. The tag read CUNNINGHAM RAPE, 69-23119.

Louis sat down and pulled open the top drawer of the file cabinet from Stephanie Pryce. He wanted one more look before they sent it back to Flint. He sifted through the folders, pulling out one that said RECEIPTS. It was crammed with bills for gas, dry cleaning, a new holster, boots and other job-related expenses. Pryce must have been saving these for his taxes.

As Louis slipped it back in its place, he noticed another file wedged inside of it. He pulled it out; it was labeled RÉSUMÉ and he knew immediately that he had missed it last night. Inside were a dozen crisp copies of Pryce’s résumé, clippings of employment ads and a few letters. A familiar letterhead caught his eye: The City of Detroit. He pulled out the letter, addressed to Pryce at his home.
Due to budget cuts, the city is not adding additional officers at this time...

Louis smiled wanly. So Pryce had been trying to make it to the big time, too. He thumbed through the other letters, his smile fading. There were at least a dozen letters of inquiry and almost as many rejections, the oldest dating back to February 1982. Pryce had joined the Loon Lake force in 1981. If this file was any indication he sure grew bored here quickly.

But that made no sense. Stephanie Pryce said they were happy in Loon Lake. Maybe Pryce didn’t tell her he was looking for another job. Who knew what went on between husbands and wives?

Louis set the résumé file aside and continued on through the rest. Forty-five minutes later, in the second drawer, he came across a well-worn yellow legal pad that he also hadn’t noticed last night. The top binding was filled with doodles like the ones on the desk blotter. He went quickly through the pages: more doodles amid Pryce’s small, hard-to-read handwriting. A few numbers but nothing that registered.

Slowing down now, he flipped to the last page of the pad, looking for anything relevant to Pryce’s last days. He kept going, reading each page, until he got to the top again. It was dated from last summer. It contained brief notes about the burglary of a tourist cabin Jesse had mentioned.

Louis tossed the pad on the floor in disgust. Shit. Nothing...absolutely nothing.

He stared at the open drawer of the cabinet, and he kicked it closed. His eyes fell on the legal pad, lying face-down on the floor. Doodles, more damn doodles. The whole back of the pad was one giant paisley doodle that fanned out in elaborate concentric circles. In the center was one number — 61829.

Louis wheeled the stool to the room entrance. “Hey, Dale, come here a sec.”

Dale looked up from his computer and came over.

Louis held out the pad. “Look at this number. Any thoughts?”

“Too short for a social or phone,” Dale offered.

Louis stared at the number. It was probably nothing but then again maybe Pryce had drawn this elaborate design around it on purpose, like Jesse giving emphasis to his signature with a double underline.

But cops didn’t routinely record notes on bulky legal pads; they wrote important stuff in their pocket notebooks. Pryce’s was still missing. He had asked Gibralter about it but the chief said he had never seen it.

Louis gathered up the legal pad, the résumé file and a few papers he had set aside to be copied. The rest, he was sure now, was useless and he could send it back to Stephanie Pryce. Standing up to stretch, he switched off the light and closed the gate behind him.