Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (20 page)

“I can’t tell,” Bryce admitted. “I’d guess I must be hungry if I consider the amount of time that has passed since I last ate. If anyone wants to go on a radical diet, they might try switching places with me this week.”

“You look a little blurry around the edges,” she agreed, studying his face. “That’s part of why we’re here.”

Blurry around the edges was a nice of way saying he looked like hell. Unfortunately, he could imagine it was true. Bryce turned and smiled gratefully at the middle-aged waitress as she delivered their drinks. The beer was ice cold and delicious.

They both ordered walleye dinners and he wondered why he didn’t feel more awkward. Surely this had to be one of the worst possible reasons on earth for two people to have dinner together.

The hum of conversation around them was like a cocoon, the warmth and smells of the restaurant making the bizarre events of the morning distant and unreal. A basket of warm rolls was delivered along with butter and honey and Bryce discovered maybe he was hungry after all.

After Ellie generously slathered a roll with butter and took a bite, she said conversationally, “You went to MIT and then on to graduate school later in a completely different field. Impressive. I understand MIT because of what you do, but why a Ph.D. in literature? Seems a little off the wall.”

“I love to read.” The roll was soft and delicious. He swallowed another bite before he added, “Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it is your favorite thing to do. When I was younger I decided I’d love nothing more than to write. To that end I decided graduate work in literature would help immensely.”

She looked interested. “Your ex-wife mentioned that. Did it?”

“If I ever hit the
New York Times
best-seller list, I’ll say yes. Let’s just leave it that it was much more enjoyable reading Joyce and Voltaire than it was studying computer engineering. The Ph.D. was an indulgence. Then I got married and…” He trailed off and gave a slight shrug.

The woman across from him knew everything about his life if he had to guess, but he knew very little besides her rank-and-file placement in Wisconsin law enforcement. “How about you?” he asked. “Are you a native?”

“Madison,” she confirmed with a nod. “I went to UWM and majored in English at first. I thought about law school but something happened to steer me another direction. My degree is in criminal justice. I thought about applying for the FBI, but you know, I like it here. It’s beautiful. Not just in an abstract sense, but really beautiful, even when it’s cold. I like the aura of northern Wisconsin, if that makes sense. It’s familiar, and it’s home.”

“Perfect sense.” Bryce ran his fingers down his beer bottle, wiping away the condensation. “I’ve been vacationing up here since I can remember. I think my grandfather built that cabin in the fifties.”

The cabin. The woodpile with its strange layered of bits of humanity …

No, he wasn’t going to think about it. Quickly, he asked, “What about you, Detective? Are you married?”

“No.” She smiled. “Never. Most of my colleagues are men, but still, women in the police force sometimes have a hard time with romance. Men too, for that matter. The hours alone are enough to put a strain on even a decent relationship.”

“It must be an interesting job, though.” That was a bit inane, but Bryce had the excuse he’d never had to make small talk with someone investigating him before.

“It can be.” Her mouth quirked at the corner. “You’re a pretty good example of that. I like intelligent men.” He’d been thinking about another roll, but her comment jerked his attention up. The words had a soft edge of innuendo, but he doubted it was really intended the way he wanted to take it.

“But I don’t like smart killers,” she went on, as if discussing murder over the dinner table was perfectly normal. For her, maybe it was. “Tell me, Dr. Grantham, with the degree from MIT, if you were me, how would you go about solving this case?”

He had no idea what to say for a moment. “You want advice from
me
?”

Ellie wasn’t into games, but if she were, why not play catch-the-killer? “There’s no law that says I have to take it, but yes. Sure. Why not? I’m going to guess you’ve been thinking about this almost as much as Rick and me, if not maybe even more the past few days.”

“That could be true,” he acquiesced with a wry smile. “Can I add I wish it wasn’t?”

“I can imagine.” She sipped wine and looked at him expectantly.

“One other favor. Please just call me Bryce. The Dr. Grantham thing makes me think of Dr. Grantham, the suspect.”

“All right.” She inclined her head. “Over dinner … sure.”

“I think you’ve got a risk taker on your hands.” He said it slowly. “From what I read in the paper, whoever is abducting these women actually stopped two of them somehow on roads that might not be busy but still see cars. I can’t imagine how he could force them alive into his car, but I can’t see him killing them on the side of the road either. However it happens, he is taking an awful risk someone will drive by and see him.”

The arrival of their dinners kept her from commenting.

She dipped a french fry into her tartar sauce instead of using ketchup. “That’s true. He started with a campground abduction, and even when Melissa Simmons was taken from her house there was no forced entry we could find. So how does he do it?”

“Hypothetically speaking, of course?” It was impossible to not notice the ironic edge to his tone.

“Of course.”

He ate another bite of fish. The people at the table next to them were laughing at something one of them said, the sound loud even in the din of the Friday night crowd. It was absurdly normal. He finally played along and expounded, “I’m going to guess he has their trust in some way. Who do you open your door for, Detective? The UPS man? What about a police officer? I’d roll down my window to listen to him.”

She used the malt vinegar on her fish liberally, her arm energetic. “Not a bad start, but we’ve thought of that too. Unfortunately, there isn’t a link we can see. There
has
to be a link.”

“It could be random.”

“Maybe. But usually even random has a pattern. If these are impulse killings, he still has to find the victims a certain way.”

“The women are young and alone, aren’t they?”

“Go on.”

“I don’t really have any other ideas.”

“Keep thinking. If you come up with something, I’d be interested.”

“Maybe,” he said with deliberate emphasis, “I’m not as smart as you think I am.”

Unfazed, Ellie gazed at him and responded with quiet conviction, “You see, I think you are.”

The lights and noise and mostly the food, at a guess, had done him good. The man sitting across from her didn’t look nearly so hollow and his plate was already almost empty.

Ellie had kept him talking through the entire meal, prodding with small questions, and she had the feeling he knew exactly what she was doing. When he excused himself to go to the restroom, she thoughtfully watched him walk away. He had a nice build, so it wasn’t exactly a chore.

If her instincts were worth anything, he had nothing to do with the disappearances or the strangulation of Margaret Wilson.

But, she reminded herself as philosophically as possible, until they had the killer, she couldn’t be sure of anything.

He came back, slid into the opposite seat, and put two creams in his coffee, no sugar. Slowly he stirred it. “If I stay here in Merrill tonight, when should I go back to the cabin? I don’t even have a razor with me.”

“We’ll be out there as soon as it’s light.” Ellie drank her coffee black though she usually used milk. It was sharp and hot. “The sheriff will want your statement of course. You know the drill. He’s sent out officers to block the drive, tape the area off, and keep anyone out until it’s processed.”

“I’ll feel like an idiot if it turns out to be someone’s idea of a joke and those are deer bones, or something like that.” Bryce lifted his cup and took a cautious sip.

“Deer don’t have hands,” she reminded him.

“I know.” The strained look crossed his face again.

“I expect we will want to interview you tomorrow.” Ellie kept her voice level. “And maybe DCI. We just didn’t have anything to offer them before these past few days. With the bodies surfacing, I’d guess they’re going to get more involved.”

“Great.” Bryce cradled his coffee cup and looked bleak. “Something to look forward to, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I need to call my parents and warn them this is all happening.”

“Might be a good idea. The sheriff has been pretty careful about your name so far in his dealings with the press,” she pointed out, trying to stay neutral, “but it’s obviously leaked out somehow. It’s easy enough to find out from your last name where you live. Deeds are a matter of public record.”

He regarded her with a singular intensity. “Believe me, that has occurred to me. It also strikes me whoever is doing all this has kept track of his victims. He knew just where those bones were if he went and retrieved them. I think that means something. These woods are sort of homogenous when you think about it. Lots of trees, no real landmarks except lakes and streams. Your quarry has a handle on the out-of-the-way spots where people don’t go often or someone besides me would have found something.”

“He’s local.” Ellie nodded. “I think so too. He had to know your elderly friend, Mr. Paris, no longer used that piece of property. The only problem is we have a lot of outdoorsmen around here. You practically
have
to be an outdoor type to live here year-round.”

“Aside from a bit of fishing, I’m not.”

She took in the flat declaration with a mental lift of an eyebrow. He was probably telling the truth again. The fashionable expensive leather jacket sat on the vinyl seat of the booth next to him, her memories of the chic loft swimming back into her mind. If she tried to picture him sitting at a desk, frowning in concentration at a computer screen, she bought it. An image of Bryce Grantham perched in a deer stand wearing camo gear wasn’t quite as convincing. “No,” she agreed with a small smile. “You do seem more the academic type, though they aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“I don’t know how emasculating it is to admit this to a law enforcement officer, but I’ve never even fired a gun.” His return smile was a ghost of the real thing.

“The person we’re looking for strangles his victims. At least he did according to the ME on the Margaret Wilson case.”

His cup rattled as he put it back in the saucer. “I haven’t done that either.”

He had nice hands. Long graceful fingers like a surgeon or a musician. The arrival of the waitress with their bill kept her from commenting. He offered to pay it, but Ellie stood firm.

“I invited
you,
” she said setting her credit card down on the slip of paper. “My idea all the way, so I pay.”

He looked at her across the table, his mouth lifted at one corner. “You can be very stubborn, Detective MacIntosh, and in the current situation, I don’t think I have much leverage. All right. My turn next time?”

“That can be negotiated.” She did her best to look bland. “I tell you what, when we catch him, you take me out to celebrate. I warn you, I can be an expensive date.”

He gave her an undecipherable look. “I’ll start saving up. If it happens soon, I’ll throw in dessert.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed.

It sounded ridiculous under the circumstances, but she had enjoyed having dinner with him.

Outside it was clear and cold, the night sky a blanket studded with a smattering of brilliant stars. He walked her to her car, hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the freezing temperature. “Why don’t you call me in the morning and let me know when I can get in. You have my cell number.”

She pressed a button and her car started. “That sounds like a good idea.” After a brief hesitation, she said quietly, “I have no idea if the sheriff plans on getting a warrant or not. Friday night is a tough time to reach a judge. You might want to give us permission.”

The parking lot had spotlights perched on poles and the illumination washed his face to bones and angles. “A warrant for what?”

“To search the cabin.”

“The bones are in the woodpile.”

“I know, but…” She shrugged.

For a moment, he didn’t seem to know what to say. Then he let out a resigned sigh, his breath a frosty puff. “I can’t think of any reason to object except a general feeling of violation over the premise. It should take them all of two minutes. Other than my tackle box and fishing pole, the only thing that’s really mine in the place is what I brought in my suitcase to wear during my stay, my laptop, and a briefcase with business papers and notes.”

She refrained from pointing out what they’d be looking for was something
not
of his. Some serial killers took trophies. According to her husband, Margaret Wilson might have been wearing pearl earrings the day she was abducted. He didn’t remember if she’d specifically been wearing them the day she disappeared, but they weren’t in her jewelry box and she hadn’t had them on when she was found. She murmured, “Like I said, I am not sure if the sheriff is even going to go that direction, but it would helpful if you’d just let us.”

“Fine.” He looked away, all at once remote, the warmth gone. “I’ll even give you the key if you want. Help yourselves.”

When he pulled the ring from his pocket and extracted a key from the bunch, Ellie accepted it with mixed feelings. His demeanor said they weren’t going to find anything.

She hoped they wouldn’t. It was contrary to the best interests they had in the case, because if there was any scrap of evidence then they would finally nail the killer right to the wall and it would all be over.

She just didn’t
want
it to be him.

It was ironic, but maybe the interview with his ex-wife had been a turning point for her. As much as Suzanne Colgan-Grantham had wanted to defame her husband, she hadn’t been quite able to do it. It supported the underlying feeling Ellie had that he wasn’t who they were looking for.

“Thanks.” Ellie put the key in her pocket. She tilted her head to look up at him. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”