Dead of Winter Read online

  “Did he aim it at you during your fight?”

  She shakes her head. “He never got it out, but I think he would have if he’d had the chance. After I hit him back, he hit me some more. I kept trying to get away from him, or get him to stop, but he wouldn’t. I finally grabbed my keys from the hook by the door and used the pepper spray I carry on my key ring. It stopped him momentarily, but he was thrashing and bellowing like a mad bull. I’ve never seen him so mad, so I ran out of the apartment to get away and give him some time to cool off. I got in my car and pulled out of the lot, but I didn’t know where to go. I was afraid Ernie would come after me, and I felt certain he’d come with his gun. I thought about going to the funeral home and my parents, but I didn’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt. The police station was an option, but I was afraid they might try to confront Ernie, and if he had his gun, he might . . .”

  She let the rest of that thought go unspoken, but I knew what she was thinking. Given what I had learned about Ernie and his temper, a showdown resulting in a shoot-out was a highly likely outcome.

  “I knew Ernie would check my sister’s place first thing,” Kit went on after a brief silence. “Then I thought of here. I figured I could badge myself in downstairs, and even if no one was here at the time, I knew someone would be soon. And he wouldn’t be able to get in.”

  “That was smart thinking,” I tell her. And it was. The sisters had their own key cards for accessing the elevator, since they were the designated transporters for any bodies that needed to be brought to our morgue. And this early in the morning, our office was locked up and reasonably secure. “How long were you here before I arrived?”

  “Only about five minutes,” she says.

  “Has Ernie tried to contact you?”

  “He couldn’t,” she says. “I left without my phone. But I used one of your phones when I got here to call my sister and warn her, in case Ernie showed up there.”

  “And he hadn’t?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, fighting back tears. “She didn’t answer. She sometimes does that on our days off, and today we have a part-time employee covering pickups.”

  “What’s Ernie’s last name?”

  “Roberts,” she says.

  “I’m going to call Hurley. He’s at the police station and can be here in minutes.” I rise from the bench and walk over to where I’d dropped my jacket and purse just inside the locker room door. I dig out my cell phone and place the call. As I’m waiting for the connection to go through, I look over at Kit. She looks troubled, her face screwed up with worry, her hands wringing, one foot tapping nervously on the floor.

  “What’s up, Squatch?” Hurley answers. “Are you okay? Do you need me for something?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, opting not to share the fact that I’m less toilet trained than our toddler at the moment. “But I do need your help. Not for me, for Kit Johnson. She’s here at my office. She came here after running away from her boyfriend, Ernie Roberts, early this morning after he slapped her around and then threatened to shoot her.”

  “Shoot her?” I can tell from the stringent tone of Hurley’s voice that I have his full attention. “Did he actually aim a gun at her?”

  “She says no, but that’s probably only because she didn’t give him a chance to get it. She pepper-sprayed him and ran. But he has a gun, and she said he threatened to kill her.”

  “Does she know where he is now?”

  “No. But she feels certain he is going to come after her.”

  “Okay, hold on a sec.” I hear him holler out “Devo!” but it’s muffled, making me think he has his hand over his phone. Apparently, Brenda and Patrick have returned to the station from the scene of my earlier accident. I hope they haven’t told Hurley about it. A few seconds later, I hear Hurley issue orders to Devo to check on the whereabouts of Ernie Roberts, and to bring him in if he can find him. Then he caveats his instructions with a warning that Roberts may be armed and dangerous.

  “Okay, Squatch,” he says, returning to me on the phone. “I’ve got Devo and Joiner out looking for the guy. I want you and Kit to stay there at your office and make sure nobody lets this guy in. Got it?”

  I nod, realize Hurley can’t see that, and say, “Got it.” Then I remember Izzy, who should have arrived here not long after I did. It would have taken him only minutes more to walk the few blocks from the scene of the accident to our office. “Are you going to come over here and talk to Kit?” I ask. I feel exposed and vulnerable all of a sudden, and I can’t help looking over my shoulder toward the locker room door.

  “I will, but not just yet. You should be safe there. Don’t go anywhere, and call me if anything happens.”

  “Okay. I will.” I disconnect the call and glance at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:38, and Cass, our receptionist, typically comes in at eight. I need to let her know what’s going on, and check on Izzy.

  CHAPTER 15

  I take Kit to my office, aka the library, settle her in at a desk, and tell her to stay put. Then I head back the way we came to check Izzy’s office and see if he is there. He is, settled in behind his desk working at his computer.

  “Ah, I see you’ve managed to clean yourself up,” he says with a wicked gleam in his eye.

  “Yes.” My answer is short and clipped, making Izzy frown. “But I still need to do something about my car.”

  “Call Not a Trace, that biohazard company that cleans up death scenes,” Izzy suggests.

  “Good idea. I trust you enjoyed your walk.”

  “I did. It was very . . . refreshing.” He bites back a grin.

  I don’t return the smile and his quickly fades when he hears the worried tone of my next question. “How did you come into the building?”

  “Through the garage. Why?”

  I fill him in on my own arrival, Kit’s situation, and the current status of things. “I trust there wasn’t anyone suspicious-looking outside when you came in?”

  “Not that I noticed, but I confess, I wasn’t really focusing on that.”

  “Hurley has officers looking for Roberts, and I doubt he’d think to look here. But it’s always possible.”

  “Where did Kit park? I don’t recall seeing any other cars in the garage besides yours.”

  I think back to my own entry into the garage, and realize I didn’t see any other cars there, either. I had to admit, though, I was otherwise distracted. And, I realize, I have no idea what Kit’s personal car looks like. Every time I’ve seen her and her sister, they’ve been driving a hearse.

  “Good question,” I say. “This boyfriend of hers might be able to find her car. I’ll ask her.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Next I head out to the front reception area. It is fifteen minutes before eight, and Cass has a habit of showing up at eight o’clock on the dot. I walk over and check the front door to make sure it’s locked securely, and then I head for the desk while taking out my cell phone and dialing Cass’s number. She answers on the first ring.

  “I’m just about to leave the house,” she says, forgoing any formal greeting.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “Take your time, and I need you to be careful when you get here.” I then fill her in on the situation. When I’m done, she asks what Roberts looks like, so she can keep an eye out for him. That’s when I realize I have no idea. I tell her so, and that I’ll see if I can find out; then I suggest that she keep an eye out for anyone who looks out of place or suspicious, and if she sees such a person to keep on driving. I disconnect the call and log into the computer at the front desk to see if Arnie is logged in yet. He typically comes to work at seven, and sure enough, he’s already checked in.

  I head back to the library and find Kit exactly where I left her. She doesn’t appear to have moved an inch. Her eyes are staring off into space, and I can only imagine what sort of movie reel is playing in her head.

  “Kit, are you okay?” I ask in a soft voice, not wanting to startle her.

&nb
sp; She jerks violently anyway, whipping her head around to stare at me. After a moment, she calms and nods slowly.

  “I need to ask you a couple of questions,” I say, grabbing a chair and pulling it up beside her. “To start with, can you tell me what Ernie looks like?”

  She stares at me for several seconds without answering, her brows furrowed into a frown. “Are the cops going to hurt him?” she asks finally, ignoring my question.

  She seems overly concerned for his welfare, and her attitude irritates me. If a guy had done to me what Ernie has done to her, I wouldn’t care if the bastard was hurt. In fact, I’d be inclined to hurt him myself. But I know that victims of this type of domestic abuse are often torn and confused about their feelings for the abuser, and I tamp down my own ire. Presumably she had cared about this man enough at some point to make him a significant part of her life, and perhaps she was struggling with the memory of this version of the man as compared to the current one.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I know they’ll try not to hurt him, but if he is armed and confrontational, things could get ugly.”

  Kit looks down at the floor and nods slowly. Tears well up and streak their way over her lids and down her cheeks.

  “Can you give me a description of Ernie, please?” I ask again.

  She looks at me, swipes irritably at the tears on her face with the back of one hand, and then looks at the computer that is sitting on the desk in front of us. “Can I use the computer?” she asks. “I can show you a picture of him.”

  I nod, awaken the computer, and log into it. Then I turn the controls over to Kit. She manipulates the mouse deftly, types in a few things, and then turns the screen toward me. I see that she has logged into her Facebook account, and on the screen is a picture of a much happier Kit and a man who is tall, dark, bearded, and, notably, not smiling. He has an arm draped over Kit’s shoulders, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm in a tight, possessive-looking grip. Kit is a tall woman, not as tall as me, but taller than most. I gauge her height to be somewhere around five-ten, and since she appears to be wearing flats in the picture on the screen, and Ernie stands a good six inches above her, I figure his height is somewhere around six-four. His shoulders are broad, as is his chest. He is a mountain of a man, and I feel a momentary twinge of worry for the cops who are looking for him.

  “He’s a big guy,” I say to Kit. She nods, and I notice that she is avoiding looking at the screen. I reach over and take the mouse and keyboard, and quickly save the picture. Then I send it to Cass’s cell phone. “I don’t recall seeing another car down in the garage when I pulled in this morning,” I say as I’m working. “Where did you park, and what does your car look like? I assume you didn’t drive the hearse.”

  “I have a Toyota pickup with a cap on the back,” she says in a robotic-sounding voice. “It’s white. I parked on the street between here and the police station because I was going to go there, but then I changed my mind and came here instead.” She pauses, swallows hard, and continues. “I didn’t want to trigger . . . anything.”

  I know what she’s implying. She’s afraid Ernie might be mad enough, crazy enough perhaps, to go into the police station, gun waving, and get himself shot. She hasn’t parked that far away from the station, so the possibility of that happening isn’t ruled out entirely. “What is Ernie driving?” I ask.

  “A black SUV. It’s a Ford of some sort.”

  Great, I think sardonically, a car that looks like one-third of all the other cars on the road. I get up and walk around the room, feeling anxious. I send a text to Cass with a description of the car, and then I dial Arnie’s number. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a voice mail message telling him what’s going on, with a description of both Ernie and his vehicle. When I’m done, I look back at Kit, who is once again staring off into space.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and then I head for Izzy’s office again, intending to update him on the situation. The second I step out into the hall, my phone rings. I see it’s Hurley and answer, “Have they got him?”

  “No, and things have taken a turn.” I can tell from the level of anxiety in his voice that this turn is one for the worse. “He’s been to Kit’s sister’s apartment.”

  I continue down the hall, and as I approach the elevator, I hear it rumbling its way up from the basement level. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that Cass must have made it here safely.

  “He threatened to shoot her if she didn’t tell him where Kit was,” Hurley continues. “He’d already been to the funeral home, so he knew she wasn’t there.” He pauses, and takes in a deep breath. “Squatch, he pistol-whipped the parents and then beat up Kit’s sister pretty good.”

  “Oh no! Are they okay?”

  “I think she will be, but he messed the parents up pretty good. And there’s something else.”

  The elevator ding announces its arrival. I hear my phone beep to tell me there is another call, and when I glance at the screen, I see it’s Arnie. I let it go to voice mail, knowing I can call him back as soon as I’m done talking to Hurley. I turn around as the elevator door slides open and Hurley continues his update.

  “Apparently, Kit called her sister from your office, and Roberts saw it on the caller ID on the sister’s phone. He took her key card to your office, so he may show up there.”

  Indeed, he might, I think. Indeed, he has. I gawk openmouthed at Ernie Roberts as he steps out of the elevator, gun in hand.

  “Squatch?” Hurley says. “You need to be careful. I’m on my way over there now, but stay alert, okay?”

  “Not another word,” says Roberts. His voice is low and calm—barely above a whisper—but I’m not fooled by it. I know this is only so Hurley won’t hear him. The cold glint in his eye and the barrel of the gun he’s pointing at me tell me that he is anything but calm on the inside. “Hand it over.” He does a gimme gesture with his free hand, and as soon as I hand him the phone, he disconnects the call with his thumb and drops the phone in his jacket pocket.

  Ernie takes another step toward me, his huge size looming over me. I detect the reek of alcohol on his breath, and it’s emanating from his pores. “Where is she?” he demands.

  My mind quickly races through my options. The gun, which is inches away from my chest, eliminates most of them. In a bizarre segue of thoughts, I wonder if the ample size of my bosom might prove to be an advantage, should I get shot. Maybe all that flesh will slow down the bullet’s track enough before it hits anything vital. Best not to get shot at all, of course, so I decide to try to buy some time by playing dumb.

  “Sir, I don’t know what it is you want, but it’s difficult for me to help you with that gun pointing at me. It makes me very nervous.” I say this in as calm and reasoned a tone as I can muster, though I hear the quaver in my voice.

  “Where the hell is she?” he asks again, tilting his head to one side and moving the gun a hair closer. His tone is much more demanding this time.

  “I’m sorry, sir, are you looking for someone who has died?”

  “Kit Johnson,” he says through gritted teeth. “Don’t play any frigging games with me, lady. Where is she?”

  “Kit?” I say, trying on an apologetic expression. “Oh, she was here, but she left a few minutes ago. You just missed her.”

  “Bullshit!” he barks, spraying spittle at me and making me jump. I take a step back away from him, but he quickly closes the distance. “I know you’re lying. Now you can either tell me where she is, or I can kill you right here and go look for her myself.” With this, he raises the gun, aiming it between my eyes.

  Not enough extra flesh there to save me, I think idiotically. And even Barbara’s magical ministrations, using all the makeup in the world, won’t be able to fix up what would be left of my face. Humpty Dumpty would never get put back together again, even with all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. The elevator makes a clunking sound and then starts to move, going back down to the garage. The noise brings me
back to my senses.

  Hurley, I think, hoping. But then I realize it might also be Cass, arriving to work unaware that the danger I’d warned her to watch for outside was currently inside. And even if it is Hurley, he’d be a sitting duck when the elevator doors opened. The simple fact that our last phone call ended abruptly might not be enough to alert him. Calls get dropped all the time in our office.

  I need to get Ernie on the move, away from the elevator.

  “Okay,” I say, a bit breathless. I hold up my hands like a traffic cop. “Just relax and I’ll take you to her.” I hear the elevator doors slide open below us.

  I turn away and head down the hall, half expecting to feel a bullet in my back at any second. After a few steps, I turn and enter a smaller hallway, at the end of which is a large metal door. I hear Ernie behind me, but don’t turn to look at him. When I reach the door, I punch in a number code on the lock, hear the click, and open the door.

  “What the hell?” Ernie says as I step inside the morgue refrigerator. He surveys the contents of the large, cold room with eyes suddenly grown huge. There are only two bodies in here at the moment, both of them lying on a stretcher and covered with sheets. One of those bodies is that of Liesel Paulsen. The other is a large man in his fifties, who we determined died of a heart attack, and who was from out of town. We are waiting on the family to make arrangements to have the body transported to Minnesota. No need to look at toe tags to tell who is who in here. The huge mound beneath the sheet on one of the carts is the equivalent of about three Liesels.

  Off to one side of the refrigerated room is a second door, this one leading into the autopsy suite. I head for it, talking over my shoulder. “Sorry to go through this way,” I say, “but Kit was going to put a body in here, so I thought I should check it first. She must be in the autopsy suite.” With brazen boldness, I push open the second door and step into the autopsy room. Only then do I turn and look back at Ernie.