Red Snow (13 page)

Crouched on his haunches in the tumbling snowfall outside the rear door of the trauma center, Robert found himself face to face with horror. The head of the skier decapitated on the chairlift had been mounted atop a ski pole and stuck in a snowdrift on the inside edge of the yard. The tangled hair was matted with blood, and the eyes had rolled back in the skull so only slivers of pupil met the chief’s gaze. Blood trickled from the nostrils down the yawning jaw. The tongue protruded from purple lips. The handle of the ski pole was rammed up the neck to the base of the brain.

The Russian had been waiting for the Mountie at the front door of the makeshift morgue and immediately ushered him down the hall to the rear exit. The moment they stepped out into the storm, the bodiless head was in their faces.

“After we spoke, I came out to look for Gill,” said Joe. “That was waiting for me.”

“So where is she? You said Gill was here.”

Joe placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I couldn’t tell you on the phone. Steel yourself, my friend. Gill and the sports medic are both dead.”

DeClercq sucked in a gasp of air. Bile rising to his throat, it took all the self-control he could muster to keep from throwing up.

“Take me to her,” he said.

“When I came out,” the Russian explained, “the storm was lighter than this. I could see both bodies in the middle of the yard. The ground was undisturbed, except for these two sets of boot prints.” He indicated tracks extending into the yard. “Had I not spotted the bodies, I would have followed the trail by stepping into the impressions. They had to lead to Gill.”

Joe directed Robert to a third set of prints off to the left.

“Instead, I kept to one side to avoid ruining their tracks. My prints are a safe path to the bodies. I’ll sweep the flashlight if you’ll carry this.” He passed the Mountie his Murder Bag.

Single file, they followed Joe’s footprints into the whiteout. So thick was the snow that it had already erased the patterns made by the soles of his boots. With flakes flying at their faces, the two men used the flashlight beam to keep them on course to the victims.

The bodies lay side by side in the red snow, their boots facing the trauma center. Joe and Robert arced in from the left, the side on which the Finn was sprawled. Joe’s footprints ended at his neck, where two long grooves indicated that the Russian had knelt beside the corpse.

“He died from a single stab wound through the neck,” the scientist said. “The attack came from behind. The diameter of the hole suggests an ice pick.”

The Mountie ignored the male victim. His eyes were locked on the snowy figure beyond.

“Gill was stabbed three times in the back,” said Joe. “Once in the nape of the neck, like Pekka, and twice in the torso. One of those jabs spiked her spine. The other went through her heart, as you can see from the location of the ice pick still sunk in her back.”

The Russian’s footprints arced like a halo around both victims’ heads, ending in two more grooves along Gill’s right side. Robert trudged across and stood next to his murdered lover.

Gill’s death put to rest any doubts he’d had that Mephisto was the mastermind behind this scheme. But if that madman thought he could crack the chief’s psyche like the Headhunter had before, he was mistaken.

Robert was stronger, not weaker, at the broken places.

In the tropics, you learn firsthand the value of a hurricane room. On a vacation with Gill at one of her resorts, the chief had weathered a powerful storm in such a sanctuary—a strongly built cell designed to withstand the ravages of rampaging winds.

In the concrete jungle, you learn how a panic room, with its walls and doors of reinforced steel, can protect residents against robbery and rape.

The military equivalent is a redoubt, a fort within a fort for making your last stand.

That’s what Robert was doing now: building his redoubt. Grieving would come later, when he had time. For now, he inured himself to the horror at his feet, then filled that vacuum with cold resolve to thwart this toxic monster.

“How do you see it?” the Russian asked, challenging the detective in his friend. “Walk me through the crime.”

“The killer snuck up behind them as they trudged across the yard. First, the Finn was stabbed through the back of the neck. Then Gill was stabbed before she could turn. Three jabs in quick succession to the back of her neck and torso. The killer left the ice pick stuck in her heart and retreated to the trauma center.”

“I agree that all the wounds were fatal,” said Joseph. “So there was no fighting back. Both were paralyzed instantly by the stabs to their spines.”

“I see the problem,” the chief said. “There are only
two
sets of footprints in the snow.”

The scientist nodded. “So how did the killer reach them?”

“In Western movies, the villain always erases his trail by dragging sagebrush behind his horse.”

“Not here,” said Joe. “Once the snow is compacted, you can’t erase your trail. And if you try to fill your boot prints with snow, you’ll leave other indentations behind. I scanned the area carefully when the snowfall was lighter. I’ll swear that the yard was untouched except for the footprints you see.”

“No marks from snowshoes or cross-country skis?”

Joe shook his head.

“Tarzan?” suggested the chief.

“The buildings aren’t tall enough to allow someone to swing in on a vine. I can’t see a tightrope either. And anyway, how would that work? The lack of disturbance around the bodies tells us that both were stabbed to death before they could react.”

“Taken by complete surprise?”

“Yes. Stab, stab, stab, stab, and it was over,” said Joe. “Gill didn’t suffer.”

“So what does that leave?”

“No,” said the Russian, “I’m not the killer. I didn’t sweep in from the side, pretending to bring them a message, and explain away my tracks by claiming I found the bodies.”

“I never thought that, Joe.”

“Well, all we have are footprints from the severed head to here.”

“Maybe that’s the answer,” the chief replied. “The killer crept up behind them by stepping in the Finn’s footprints. After both murders, he or she walked backwards in the same tracks.”

“But
that’s
the puzzle,” said Joe. “The evidence is telling us we have an impossible crime.” The scientist followed his own footsteps to Gill’s feet. “Hand me my Murder Bag,” he said to Robert, “and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Setting the forensic kit down in the snow, he withdrew several soft brushes. With the flashlight in one hand, he dusted fluffy flakes off the soles of Gill’s boots.

No need to explain to Robert what he was doing. Footwear tracks are made up of both class and individual characteristics. The class characteristics, common to all boots of the same make, include size, style, and above all, tread design. The individual characteristics, which set each unique boot apart, include random defects, cuts, wear patterns, and stones wedged in the treads. Individual characteristics can identify a
particular
boot, to the exclusion of all other footwear.

Earlier, Joe had used his scarf to cover several of the footprints, protecting them from the falling snow. Removing it, he lightly brushed the surface of one print, exposing the tread pattern Gill’s boot had left in the snow. Robert picked out both the class and the individual characteristics.

“My initial trudge from the morgue to the crime scene left sharp prints like these,” said Joe. “I ruined them when I tried walking back in the same holes. The new patterns did not mesh exactly with the old.”

“What about the Finn’s tracks?”

“They’re as crisp as these. There’s no doubt in my mind that
all
the prints leading to Gill’s feet were made by her, and
all
the prints leading to Pekka’s feet were made by him. Not including the two of us, the
only
people who trudged to the center of this yard were the victims. Whoever stalked and stabbed them did it in a way that left no footprints.”

“How?” asked Robert.

“I have no idea.”

Before departing for the morgue, the chief had given Zinc Chandler Nick Craven’s notebook to check for leads. In it, the corporal had jottings about Mandy the Blonde, Jessica the Redhead, Corrina the Raven, and their respective ex-boyfriends. His notes compared Mandy to Lana Turner, Jessica to Rita Hayworth, and Corrina to Jane Russell. Thanks to him, Zinc had nothing but sex on his mind as he weaved his way through a throng of paranoid barflies talking violence in a smattering of tongues.

He was hunting for a femme fatale.

“What’ll it be?” the server asked when he finally bellied up to the bar.

“Are you Karen?”

“Is that not what’s printed here?” The brunette tapped the name tag on her breast.

“I wasn’t looking,” Zinc replied, his focus on her eyes.

“You’re
supposed
to look. It bumps up my tips.”

The inspector dropped his gaze for a moment to her low-cut top. If she bent over the bar, he’d have a glimpse all the way down to her navel.

“Your tips don’t need bumping up,” he said, deadpan.

Karen laughed.

Zinc placed his regimental badge and Nick’s driver’s license down on the counter, side by side, and indicated the photo. “Did you serve this fellow yesterday?”

“He’s the Mountie who was killed upstairs, right?”

Zinc nodded.

“Yeah, I served him. Scotch on the rocks,” she said. “We kibitzed about whiskies, with and without the ‘e.’ He told me he was investigating the murder of the guy who got his head cut off on the slopes. Sorry—the
first
guy who got his head cut off on the slopes. This was Boomer’s watering hole. I told Nick he must’ve moved in on the wrong chick.”

“Like maybe Mandy, Jessica, or Corrina?” asked Zinc.

“Yeah,” said Karen. “All three were here, sitting at the same table. Nick took their drinks over and sat down. He left his Scotch behind, though, so I followed.”

“Did you overhear their conversation?”

“Just a snippet. Jessica was asking Nick about his strangest case. I knew they were playing with him.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what those three do. Whistler attracts gold diggers by the hundreds. Rich guys plow the slopes, then hit the bars to get laid. Mandy, Jessica, and Corrina have the claws it takes.”

“Think one of them picked off Nick?”

“Not to kill him. But I wouldn’t be surprised if one was used as a lure. He told me he was mixing business and pleasure. Dabbling in the case because he could ski Boomer’s Run. From the amount of time he spent with those three vamps, he seemed more interested in pleasure than business.”

To the badge and license, Zinc added the Post-it Note.

“Recognize the writing?”

“No,” said Karen. “Do you carry a gun?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You look like you can take care of yourself in a fight. How’d you get the scar on your jaw?”

“In a fight.”

“What happened to the other guy?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Actually, I
do
.”

“Let’s just say it took more than stitches.”

“Ever kill anyone?”

“Where’s this going?” asked Zinc.

“Look, two skiers have lost their heads. A cop got killed in this very hotel. And now I’m hearing rumors that a woman’s throat was cut at Alpha Lake.” She shuddered. “Those vamps may want a man with money, but I want a man with a gun.” She scribbled a note and passed it to Zinc. “Here’s my cell number. Think it over.”

Zinc Chandler had lost the love of his life to violence and was scarred both inside and out. Since then, he’d sought nothing from women—and had offered nothing in return—but brief physical flings. Emotional commitment was for other men. He was open to free spirits who played by their own rules.

“Mandy, Jessica, and Corrina. Where do I find them?”

“Looking for a better offer?”

“Unlike Nick, I am on the job. Business, not pleasure.”

“Turn around and look for blonde, red, and black hair together,” she said. “And if you change your mind about the other thing, I’ll make it worth your while.”

*     *     *

At first, Zinc hadn’t spied them through the pack of beefcake besieging their table. Now, he tried to bypass a hulk reeking of rum to reach the Venusian trio.

“Back off, buddy,” snarled Mars. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Zinc flashed his badge. “Talk to the hand, pal.” He held the badge to his ear. “The hand says you should get lost. If you know what’s good for you.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” said Mandy. “Get lost.”

“You heard the lady,” Zinc said. “Don’t play the fool. I’m looking for an aggressive drunk to yard in. Know someone who fits that bill?”

From how they quickly abandoned the table, Zinc figured these lunkheads weren’t really planets. Theirs was more the elliptical orbit of a comet, zipping off into space to return in seventy-odd years.

“Okay if I join you?” he asked, grabbing a seat before there was any reply.

Corrina, the raven-haired beauty, sized him up, as if trying to decide whether he was worth her time. “How’d your hair go gray?” she finally asked. “You look too young for Viagra.”

“I had an English granny. She used to read the Brothers Grimm to me. Cackling witches, grumbling trolls—she did all the voices. She scared me so silly I went completely gray.”

“Pull the other one.”

“It’s true! Remember ‘The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids’? In that tale, a mother goat warns her kids to be careful while she’s out shopping. When she comes home, she finds her house torn apart and a wolf sleeping outside. He has something struggling in his stomach, so she cuts him open and out come her kids. After replacing them with stones, she sews the wolf shut again. He wakes up and goes to the well for a drink. When he stoops over, the stones drag him down and he drowns. If you’d heard Granny acting out the screams of the kids being eaten alive and the howls of the wolf drowning in the well, your hair would be gray, too.”

“Now tell
me
a story, Daddy,” Mandy the Blonde implored, batting her baby blues like Little Bo Peep.

Was this what it was like to live in the Playboy Mansion?

Probably.

“My favorite was the one about the chopped finger.”

“What was that one called?” asked Mandy.

“‘The Robber Bridegroom.’”

Zinc chose a mini pretzel stick from a bowl on the table and balanced it on his thumb like a coin about to be tossed.

“A miller betroths his daughter to a secret robber. To find out who she’s marrying, the bride-to-be sneaks into his house and hides behind a barrel. The robber returns with his drunken gang, dragging a young girl with them. They force the captive to drink wine until her heart bursts. Then they tear off her garments, stretch her out on the table, chop her body into pieces, and sprinkle the morsels with salt. As they prepare to eat her—”

“This is a
children’s
story?” the Redhead exclaimed.

“Sure. Look it up.”

“Is your warped childhood the reason you became a cop?”

“It was either that or a horror writer,” said Zinc.

“Finish the story,” cooed Mandy.

“The bride trembles behind the barrel. She knows this is what will happen to her. One of the gang spots a gold ring on the girl’s little finger. When it won’t come off, he takes an ax and whacks it like a butcher.” Zinc judo-chopped the table, causing the vamps to jump, and flicked the pretzel stick off his thumb … and right down Mandy’s plunging neckline.

“Nice shot,” the Redhead said, clapping her hands.

The Blonde leaned forward and tipped her head back like Marilyn Monroe would do. “Want to fish for it?” she asked.

Zinc was no fool. Cops had lost their careers over less. And anyway, it was time to get serious, now that he knew each woman’s dominant hand.

“Actually, I’m tying up some loose ends on Boomer’s death,” he said. “A corporal talked to you yesterday afternoon.” He set Nick Craven’s driver’s license down on the center of the table. “I’m sure you’ve heard that corporal is now dead. Just to be thorough, I must eliminate your ex-boyfriends. I’d like each of you to write down the name and address of your most recent beau, and tell me why you think he isn’t—or
is
—a suspect in Boomer’s death.”

Zinc watched them scribble, two using the same hands with which they’d raised their drinks.

“You write and drink with opposite hands, Mandy.”

“I’m ambidextrous.”

“Show me,” said the inspector.

The Blonde switched hands and finished scribbling.

“That must come in handy.”

“Ask my ex-boyfriend,” she said, winking.

Actually, Zinc had all he required, for he’d seen that the handwriting on one of the sheets matched that on the Post-it Note found in Nick’s pocket. At the bar, Karen had inspired him to set a trap with her comment about wanting a man with a gun. Removing three business cards from his wallet, the inspector had jotted on the back of one: “Want a bodyguard to see you through the night? Room 412. After 5 p.m.” He’d carried the cards to the table, where he distributed them now.

“If you remember anything, give me a call.”

The vamp whose handwriting matched the Post-it Note got the card baiting the trap.

Two could play at that game.

*     *     *

“Another fool’s got the hook through his cheek,” said Scarlett.

“Who?” asked Mephisto.

“Zinc Chandler.”

“I want him, too. If it’s safe.”

“It can’t hurt to feel him out. If he’s looking to get fucked, he won’t tell anyone. If it’s a trap, I’ll have an out. He’ll be the wolf who set up the assignation, and I’ll be the innocent lamb who fell for his charms.”

“How will you kill him?”

“The same way I killed Nick Craven.”