Dead of Winter Read online

  “So, anyway,” Arnie goes on, “the next few e-mails from Games4ever2018 tell me about a friend he knows who works for a company that develops computer games. He claims that this friend needs kids who are good at playing computer games to beta test the new ones for bugs, and if I want to do that, he can provide me with free copies of dozens of games before they even hit the market. And not only will I get to keep the games, I’ll also earn a small stipend for each one I complete. I was all over that like white on rice, begging him to let me do it.

  “So then Games4ever2018 told me I was in, but that I would have to do a test case first to prove that I could play as well as I say I can. He said I can’t tell anyone about the arrangement—not my friends, not my mother, nobody—because what I’d be doing is in violation of the child labor laws. He said I would have to meet the gaming guy face-to-face, just to prove I am who I say I am, and he will give me the first game. I think it’s safe to assume, given that Games4ever2018 is already advertising me in the companion chat area, that once I agree to meet this guy, they will either try to kidnap me outright and drug me shortly thereafter, or the other way around.”

  “How can you be sure they’ll move that fast?” Hurley asks.

  “Well, the friend in the companion chat area has been there a long time and has plenty of fake online IDs that he sets up as pretend customers, who then provide recommendations for him. He does it for fun,” Arnie says with a shrug. “He likes trolling the trolls. But because of it, he has a reputation for being safe and reliable, which in this case means exactly the opposite of what most people think ‘safe’ and ‘reliable’ represents. When my friend indicated he was looking for someone that fits my made-up self-description, Games4ever2018 jumped on it and indicated that he could provide the goods.”

  Arnie opens the next series of e-mails, wherein Games-4ever2018 invites him to meet the game man at a local pizza restaurant after school so they can talk about the gaming event. Arnie’s e-mails do a good job of showing hesitancy and concern about getting in trouble with his mom, but eventually Arnie succumbs to the lure of the meeting for a chance to make money and get some free games. He agrees to meet the games man the following day at three forty-five, and Games4ever2018 even promises Arnie that the mystery man will treat him to a couple of slices of pizza.

  “So what are we hoping to gain from this?” Hurley asks.

  “Well, if Games4ever2018 is what I think he is, he’s a headhunter of sorts for some trafficking ring that’s working in this area. And if we assume our victim, Liesel, was taken by this group, there’s a good chance her sister was, too.”

  Hurley shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t know, Arnie,” he says. “I mean, I’m all for busting this guy if he is what you say he is, but I’m not sure it’s going to lead us any closer to the Paulsen girl. For one thing, I reviewed the old investigation files into the disappearance of those two girls. They didn’t have any kind of computer access at their house. It was too far out in the boonies and there isn’t any cable or other kind of Internet service available out there.”

  “Their involvement likely came about in a different manner, I’ll grant you,” Arnie says. “But these trafficking cabals are a tight, incestuous little group—forgive the awful imagery—with a select class of clients. They are constantly trading off their victims to satisfy the peculiar and particular whims of their clients. If we can get an in with someone who knows anything at all about these groups, we might be able to turn him and get some information on other groups. And who knows? Any one of those clues might lead us to Lily Paulsen.”

  Hurley’s lips thin into grim doubt. “It’s a hell of a long shot,” he says. Richmond nods in agreement.

  “What else have you got?” Arnie counters.

  The lack of an answer, ironically, is one.

  “What about Kirby O’Keefe?” I ask. “Anything on that yet?”

  Richmond says, “I haven’t found anything on him in any of the criminal databases. I did find an address, a rental house in the Dells, and I have some officers up that way seeing if they can spot the guy.”

  “What about the phone number Lowe gave us?” I ask.

  “It’s a burner,” Richmond says. “I plan to try to trace where it was bought, but I haven’t gotten to it yet. That whole thing with Roberts occupied most of our morning.”

  I shift my attention back to Arnie. “If we meet this games guy, how are we supposed to recognize him? And since we don’t have an actual kid to play the role of your online persona, won’t we scare him off? It’s not like Arnie can pass for an eleven-year-old in real life.”

  “I told the contact I always wear a red knit cap,” Arnie says. He sees us all staring at him questioningly and he shrugs. “He asked how he’d know me, so I made something up on the fly.”

  “I have an idea how we might get it to work,” Hurley says. He tosses his thoughts out there for the rest of us to consider, and when he’s done, we have a consensus of sorts. Next he makes a phone call, and within the hour, we have the whole thing set up.

  CHAPTER 18

  Once our plans for the next day are finished, Richmond goes back to the police station to work on the other leads, and Hurley walks me back downstairs to my office. I’m surprised to see that it’s only eleven-thirty in the morning. I feel like this day has lasted twelve hours already. Christopher will be in soon, and I start to rethink my commitment to staying here for the rest of the day. Not only is the storm coming in, I’m feeling pretty beat. Between my nighttime escapades, getting shot, and the emotional drain of the Paulsen case, I feel like I’ve been working for days straight. My bed is sounding really good to me about now.

  I’m about to say as much to Hurley, and then my cell phone rings. When I look at the number and see that it’s Izzy’s partner, Dom, calling, I feel a worm of worry wriggle in my gut, thinking that something might be wrong with Matthew. Then I remember that Matthew is home with Emily today rather than with Dom, and I hope the wriggle isn’t the hallmark of something else going on in my gut.

  “Hey, Dom, what’s up?”

  “Mattie, I need you. I need your help right away. Something awful has happened.”

  My heart lurches. “Is it Juliana?”

  “No, no, sorry. She’s at your sister’s house. I’m down at the theater. We had a dress rehearsal today and I dropped Juliana with Desi so I could come down here for a few hours.”

  “Then what is it?” Hurley is staring at me, brows raised in curiosity.

  “It’s Roger Dalrymple,” Dom says. I have no idea who Roger Dalrymple is. “He’s here, and he’s dead!”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, I called you first. I tried to call Izzy, but I got his voice mail.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, thinking. “Stay where you are, and make sure everyone else stays there, too. Don’t let anyone leave, and don’t let anyone touch anything. Hurley is here with me. We’ll be there in two shakes, okay?”

  “Okay,” Dom says, his voice quavering like he’s about to cry. “Please hurry.”

  “I will.” I disconnect the call and fill Hurley in on what Dom said.

  “Who is this Roger Dalrymple person?” Hurley asks when I’m done.

  “I have no idea. I don’t really keep up with Dom and his thespian group activities. But our receptionist, Cass, is involved with the group, too. Maybe she knows. Should we call Richmond back?”

  “No,” Hurley says, shaking his head. “I’m up next anyway. Let him stay focused on the Paulsen case and I’ll take this one.”

  I pick up my desk phone and dial Cass’s extension. After the phone rings six times, I’m starting to think Cass must not be there, and I prepare to hang up rather than leave a voice mail. Then she answers.

  “Medical examiner’s office,” she says. Her tone is not its usual, chipper self, and there’s no hint of her earlier British accent.

  “Cass, it’s Mattie. I just got a call from Dom and he—”

  “Yeah, I just
hung up from him,” she says. “Roger Dalrymple is dead!”

  “Who is Roger Dalrymple?”

  “He’s the playwright for the play we’re currently working on, and a bit of an ass. Dom said his death looks suspicious. If someone killed him, your list of suspects is going to be a long one.”

  “Are you here in the office?”

  “I am. I was about to forward the phones and head down there after Dom called. And then you called.”

  “It might be best if you stay here for now,” I tell her. “Hurley and I are on our way there. Can you fill Izzy in on what’s going on? He’ll probably want to be there, too.”

  “Will do.”

  I disconnect the call and go to the locker room to get my coat. Then Hurley and I take the elevator to the garage level. Hurley tries to call the station along the way, but the call won’t go through.

  “Dead zone,” I remind him, and he chuckles at the pun. “Let’s take your truck,” I say, once again remembering the state of my own.

  As we are pulling out of the garage, we pass a van with NOT A TRACE on the side of it pulling in.

  Hurley makes a call on his cell the instant we have cleared the garage and arranges for some help to meet us at the theater. “Junior Feller will join us there,” he says when he’s done. “If we need more help than that, I’ll call in some unis once we get there.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Hurley gives me a quizzical look. “Did you guys call Not a Trace to clean up the Roberts mess? I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “Um . . . no. That’s not why we called them,” I say, silently cursing Hurley’s miss-nothing detective skills. “I had a little accident in my car on the way in this morning.”

  Hurley’s brow furrows with worry. “An accident? Geez, Mattie, what else can you add on to this day? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “It wasn’t that kind of accident. Well, um, it was, but that part was minor. The hearse is built like a tank and it took it like a pro.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Not a Trace?” Hurley asks, looking at me in confusion.

  I take in a deep breath. “I kind of had a personal accident as well,” I say, hoping he’ll let the matter drop. But it’s a futile hope, and I know it.

  “A personal accident?”

  “I pooped in my pants, okay?” I blurt out.

  At first, this pronouncement is met with several seconds of silence. Then Hurley bursts out laughing.

  “Wow,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.” I scowl while Hurley struggles to get himself under control. I shake my head in dismay. “Boy, between you and Izzy, I . . .” I drift off, straightening in my seat. “Oh, crap,” I say, and this makes Hurley’s laughter build again. I ignore him. “I forgot about Izzy. He doesn’t have a car today.”

  As if he heard me, my phone rings and I see that it’s Izzy calling. Hurley pulls up and parks in front of the theater just as I’m answering.

  “I’m sorry, Izzy,” I say, forgoing any greeting when I answer the call. “I forgot you didn’t have a car.”

  “Where are you?”

  “We just arrived at the theater. We can come back and get you.”

  “Don’t bother. Christopher is here and he said I can ride with him. We’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Before I can say anything else, Izzy disconnects the call. I curse under my breath.

  “You drove Izzy to work?” Hurley says.

  “I did. His car wouldn’t start.”

  “So-o-o he was with you when you had your . . . accident?” The corners of his mouth are twitching with barely contained amusement. I nod. “Man, you’ve had a rough day of it, haven’t you?”

  “Not one of my best for sure,” I say, opening my door. I don’t wait for an answer. I get out of the truck and grab my scene-processing kit behind the seat. I have two of them, one for the hearse and one for Hurley’s truck. I used to have only one, but it became a hassle at times to make sure I had it with me because I often ride to scenes with Hurley.

  I close the truck door a little harder than necessary because I have some pent-up frustration to vent, but the action makes my left shoulder scream at me, and I instantly regret it. I shrug that arm ever so slightly, and turn to look at the theater’s façade while I wait for Hurley.

  * * *

  The building is an old movie theater built back in the 1950s, but it hasn’t shown a movie for at least two decades. Back around 2000, it was slated to be torn down, but a group of wannabe thespians and the local historical society took on the responsibility of salvaging the place and turning it into a live theater. With time, some financial assistance, and a lot of donated construction talent, the place was eventually brought back to its original, Art Deco–inspired glory. It’s been used for plays ever since, with a new one put on every few months by a local group of interested actors, writers, costumers, and set designers. The performances are typically offered only on the weekends, with matinees on Saturdays and Sundays, as well as evening performances on Friday and Saturday nights. From what I’ve heard, the audience may be anywhere from a handful of people to a full house, depending on what play is being performed and the time of year. Not surprisingly, the crowds tend to be bigger in the winter, when there isn’t much else to do.

  There are large windows on either side of the front door, and there is a small marquee overhead. Inside the windows displayed beneath pairs of theater masks are the pictures and names of all the actors and others who belong to the local group, known as The Drama Factory. On the marquee is an announcement that the latest production will be opening one week from this Friday. Perhaps ominously, the name of the play is Final Curtain.

  Hurley tries the front door, but it’s locked. I peer in through the glass, but I don’t see anyone out in the main foyer area. “There’s another door around back,” I tell him, and he heads that way in silence. He looks chastised and repentant for his laughter at my expense, but I’m not mad at him. His dark, often warped sense of humor, so like my own, is one of the things that attracted me to him initially, and it keeps me attracted to him now, even when I’m the butt—literally in this case—of his jokes. I know that if the roles were reversed, I would have busted on him as bad as he did on me. Maybe worse.

  I consider saying something to let him off the hook, but decide to wait. It’s not the proper time and place, and besides, what’s the harm in having him feel a teensy bit indebted to me for a few hours more?

  Behind the theater is a parking lot that can hold fifty cars, and it’s about half full. I don’t think all of them belong to the theater group—or at least I hope there aren’t twenty-plus people in there to interview and question—as there are also a couple of small shops and restaurants on the block, and customers often park back here rather than on the street. I recognize Dom’s car, but no others.

  The back door is an unmarked and unremarkable entrance that is, fortunately, unlocked. Hurley holds it open for me and I am hit with a blast of welcome heat as I step past him into a darkened interior. Hurley is right behind me, and as he lets the door swing shut, I’m momentarily blinded by the sudden blackness. I halt my progress and Hurley runs smack into my backside.

  “Ooomph,” he mutters as our bodies bounce off one another, making my shoulder screech again. “Sorry. What is it?”

  “I can’t see anything,” I say, blinking my eyes rapidly in hopes that this will somehow make them adjust faster. “Give me a sec.”

  Hurley’s body once again comes into contact with my backside, slower this time, until I can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my head and neck. He parks there for a moment, and one arm snakes around my waist, pulling me into him tighter. “I’m willing to give you all the time you need,” he whispers in my ear.

  Ah, yes, a little sense of indebtedness has its perks.

  Then he lets out a woeful sigh and releases me. “But not here, not now.”
<
br />   I let out a matching sigh of my own and reach back with my hand. As my eyes adjust better to the darkness, I find one of his hands and give it a squeeze. We are in a hallway with overhead lights, though they aren’t on at the moment, and I reach over to the wall and grope around until I find a switch to flip. The darkness disappears as a flickering wave of fluorescent lights struggle to life. Most of the fixtures eventually glow steady, though a couple of them continue to sputter. We follow the hall past closed doors: One is marked JANITOR; another says STORAGE; some aren’t marked at all. Near the end, there are two bathrooms, side by side, one for men and one for women.

  The hall comes to a T, with the right side leading to a set of stairs that go up to the second floor. I’ve been here before and know the upper level houses offices directly above us, and at the opposite end of the building, there is a narrow, enclosed space that used to be the reel room, where the movie spools were loaded and played. To the left of us is an open backstage area, with a ceiling that is three stories high; a maze of scaffolding, ropes, and pulleys; and a curtain that provides a backdrop to the main stage.

  A low murmur of excited voices has been audible ever since the back door closed, growing louder with each step. And as we turn left at the T, we finally reach the source of those voices, and our victim.

  Dom is dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black bow tie. His strawberry-blond hair is slicked straight back, glued into position with some sort of pomade. When he sees us, he rolls his eyes heavenward. “Oh, Mattie, thank goodness!” he says, swiping the back of one hand across his forehead. I would assume the move was a dramatic gesture coming from anyone else, but I’ve seen Dom do this many times in the past when he’s stressed. And, clearly, he’s stressed now, given that there is a dead body at his feet. Dom is normally quite fair-skinned. At the moment, between what I assume is his partially shocked state of mind and the harsh light from overhead, he looks practically translucent.