Dead of Winter

“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.

CHAPTER 31

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.