Dead of Winter

There was something in her voice, a matter-of-fact tone that stunned him. She hadn’t meant it to sound cold; her observation had come from pure innocence. It had come from something else, from sheer relief. He could see it in her eyes. I am not the target. I am safe. It struck him in that moment that he had seen the same look on other people’s faces in town, always women. He had seen it in Florence’s and Edna’s. He had seen it on the waitress’s face at Dot’s Café. They were distressed that a killer was in their midst but they were also relieved. We are safe. For once, we are not the target.

He shook his head at the irony. Women feeling safe to walk the streets in the dead of night when he and the other men – cops – trembled behind locked doors.

“Louis? What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She was looking up at him, waiting for something.

“I didn’t think you would come back,” he said.

She smiled slightly. “I didn’t think so either.”

He glanced down at her boots. “You didn’t run?”

“No, I drove.”

He looked down into her dark eyes. For a second, he saw the dark hole in the ice hut. But this darkness was warm and he felt as if he could fall into it and drift down to some secret place where he could hide away from the cold.

“Can you stay?” he asked.

“For a while,” she said softly.

He helped her out of the parka. She was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. She rubbed her arms as she went to the fire. He hung up her coat and followed. As she sat down on the sofa he spotted the legal pad on the floor and kicked it under the sofa. He glanced to the bedroom. His holstered gun was on the dresser. He went to the door and closed it, returning to the sofa to sit by her side.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

“Beer?” she said.

He went to the kitchen and brought back two Heinekens, sitting down next to her. He still felt edgy, like his skin was too tight. She was watching him as she sipped her beer, as if she sensed his tension.

“It’s cold,” he said, getting up to toss a log on the fire.

“I love the cold,” she said.

He looked back over his shoulder. “Well, you’re from Chicago so you’re used to it. I never seem to warm up.”

“Where are you from?” she asked, setting the beer aside.

“Michigan. But I was born in Mississippi.” He sat back down, acutely aware of her shoulder touching his. A surge went through him, electric, magic. Slowly, he felt himself starting to relax.

She turned to face him. She studied his face.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“Your bone structure. I’m an artist, remember?”

“Of landscapes, I thought.”

“Well, I’ve taken life-drawing classes.”

“Ah, nude men.”

“Lots of nude men.”

Her gaze traveled over him, down from his face. He held his breath. It was intimate, more erotic than if she had touched him.

“You have an athlete’s body,” she said.

“Used to. Out of shape now.”

She smiled, her eyes moving on.

“Your second toe is longer than your big toe.”

He glanced down at his feet in their tube socks. “You know what they say about that, don’t you?”

She laughed, then her eyes returned to his face. “You’ve got a white relative somewhere,” she said.

It caught him off guard. He thought of saying something flip but the warmth of her eyes stopped him.

“My father,” he said.

Her eyes held his. “Then you know,” she said softly. “You know what it’s like.”

She raised a hand and touched his cheekbone. She ran her fingers down his face, under his chin. He closed his eyes at the excruciatingly light touch.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him. The fire bathed her in gold. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on her high broad forehead. The soft tight curls of her hair formed a dark aureole around her head. She touched his lips. Her own lips parted.

He kissed her. He held her upper lip softly with his own, savoring it. When he let go, she leaned into him, placing her cheek against his. He could feel the fast rise and fall of her chest against his. Slowly, he raised his hand, brushing his fingers along the small curve of her breast.

“Can you stay?” he asked softly.

“For a while,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 11

Louis glanced at his watch. Only seven-thirty, still plenty of time before briefing. He got up and went to the coffeepot, pouring his second cup of the morning. Returning to his desk, he looked down at the papers and mail, the stuff he had taken from Lovejoy’s mailbox. Gibralter had told him to go through it, see if there might be something, some small clue.

Louis sipped the coffee, struggling to get his blood flowing, his mind working. He hadn’t slept more than a couple hours, but for once he didn’t care.