Shelf Ice (7 page)

“Just the two of us.”

“And who drove it?” asked Sue.

“I only used it on two jobs, long access roads that we were having a hard time keeping plowed with a pickup. I let Dell drive it. It’s his baby, and since his wife died he’s been down. This truck project has sort of given him something to live for. He’s an old family friend; I’m doing what I can to help him out.”

“Did you know how to drive that truck?” asked Sue.

“Look, lady, I started driving trucks and heavy equipment as soon as I could reach the pedals—before I had my license, just around the yard here or over in the pit. But, in truth, that was Dell’s truck. And I let him do the two jobs. He didn’t have to go too far, so he wasn’t putting anyone at risk.”

“I don’t know anything about your business. What’s a piece of equipment like that worth?” asked Ray.

Richard looked thoughtful, nodding his head a few times like he was adding numbers. “I don’t think Oshkosh makes anything quite like that anymore. They’re doing more specialized equipment for airports. But new, something comparable would probably be a couple-hundred grand. That truck may have been old, but after Dell finished with it, it was damn near perfect mechanically. I think maybe fifty or sixty thousand. I’m going to have to get busy and start putting some numbers together for the insurance people.”

“Brenda Manton, how did you get that job?” Ray asked.

“I did the excavation work when she was building. Her contractor, Bob Karls, hired me. There was a small, cement-block structure on the site that had to be demolished and removed and the two-track had to be widened enough to get construction equipment and materials in. She was a real pain in the ass because she didn’t want any trees cut down or the road improved. Finally Bob just told her he couldn’t build the house if he couldn’t get a cement truck in.”

“So you got to know her?”

“Not really, I let Bob deal with her. Woman like that bothers me, always hanging around watching. But that first winter she got her little SUV royally stuck. So she called wondering if I could plow her out and keep her road open.”

“When did you last see Manton?” asked Sue.

“Let me think, sometime in the fall. I stopped by to tell her that we’d be using a new piece of equipment, bigger and noisier, but it would do a better job and wouldn’t be damaging any of her precious environment.”

“How did that go down?” asked Sue.

“Seemed okay by it. She’d finally figured out what it takes to live in the woods.”

“And you hadn’t seen her since?”

“No, Sheriff. It’s just like I told you. Now if you don’t have any more questions, I’ve got things to do.”

“I’ve got one more question,” said Ray. “Where were you on Wednesday night and Thursday morning?”

“What the hell are you thinking?” Kinver answered.

“I just need to know where you were,” Ray responded in a flat, even tone.

“I was in Lansing at the workshop for county government people.”

“What days?”

“It was all day Wednesday, ended late in the evening. I stayed at the Holiday Inn, came back Thursday morning.”

“Who can substantiate this?” Ray asked.

“You can ask Mike McFarland, he was there, too. That is if the word of another county commissioner is good enough,” said Kinver. “We are the two senior commissioners, our recommendations have a lot to do with the funding of your department.”

 
“I know the people in this county appreciate your diligence and hard work on their behalf. Thank you for your time.” said Ray. “We might need to talk to you again.”

“When do I get my truck back?” asked Kinver, his tone remaining hostile.

Ray looked over at Sue and let her answer, “It’s evidence in a crime. We’re not done with it yet. I’ll let you know.”

• • •

As Sue fought her way down the unplowed road, Ray asked, “Why are you going this way?”

“I heard it was faster,” she responded. “What’s next?”

“Would you check with Mike McFarland and see if Kinver’s alibi holds up?”

“Will do.”

“Chat him up a bit before you hit him with the question.” Ray looked over at Sue. “What’s the smile for?”

“You. You’re being so careful not to say what you’re thinking. McFarland is such an old skirt chaser, all I’ve got to do is blink at him a couple times, maybe show him a hint of cleavage, and he’ll be falling all over himself trying to help me out. Then what?”

“I’d like to talk to Molly Birchard again. See if we can get her to open up a bit. What do you think?”

“I’d like another shot at Molly, too. I also need some time to carefully look at the crime scene photos. And Ray, I promised Doctor Feldman you’d get some rest. Why don’t I run you home.”

“I need a couple of hours at the office to do paperwork. I also need to get everything typed up concerning this case.”

“We’ll get dinner on the way back, and I’ll line up Molly for tomorrow morning, after she finishes her shift. And you’re going home at nine o’clock.”

10.

Ray stood at his writing desk, a hot mug of ginger tea sweetened with honey in easy reach. He was reading his last entry from earlier in the week. As he stood there filling a fountain pen with the brown ink he always used, he noted that life had been much simpler only a few days before. In his last entry, he had been rambling on about the weather, a topic he sometimes settled on when he had a need to write but couldn’t find a focus. Often writing about the weather or some other mundane topic would prove to be a starting point, inexplicitly leading to something that was worth exploring.

Ray, glancing at the journal he was currently using, a spiral-bound notebook, thought about all the other journals he had filled over the years, the most recent stacked in a near closet, more dated ones stored in boxes in the attic over the garage.
What would happen to these if I suddenly disappeared?
he thought.

Ray had no siblings or close relatives. In his recently revised will he had provided for the liquidation of his assets—the money going to local foundations and the universities he had attended, his books to the local library. But on this late evening standing at his writing desk, physically and emotionally drained from the day’s events, it suddenly hit him that he had not arranged for the disposal of his personal possessions, especially his journals. He reflected for a moment on what a reader would find: ramblings on weather, friendship, a particularly good meal or recipe, reflections on romances, narratives on kayaking on Lake Michigan—nothing prurient or salacious or especially interesting to anyone else. One thing that he would never want disclosed were his speculations during the course of criminal investigations. But all of it was personal writing—private, important, Ray’s way of capturing and reflecting on his life. It was not for anyone else’s eyes.

Ray thought he should ask his friend Marc, and maybe Sue, to be responsible for destroying his journals. Then he would talk to his attorney, Mardi, and have her add something to the will.

He finished filling the pen, wiped the ink from the grip section with a tissue, replaced and tightened the cap on the ink bottle, and returned it to the storage space below the writing surface of the desk. Each step performed slowly and with great care, a ritual, almost a meditation.

Ray started writing, the initial sentences centered on his frustration with the pace of the investigation, how they were just stumbling forward, without focus or a clear organization. There were too many leads to pursue, and he lacked the time and personnel to quickly follow all the strands. Then he thought about the victim, he needed to know more about her so he could begin to speculate on who might want to kill her.

He moved to start a new paragraph, paused and looked back at the word “kill.” The incident had started with a home invasion and an assault that had left Brenda Manton gravely injured.
But why didn’t the perp finish her off
? he wondered. And then the answer was obvious, he just needed to incapacitate Brenda. At his leisure the perp would search for and remove whatever he was after. Then he’d burn the building down and Brenda would perish in a house fire. They were common enough in homes heated with wood, and that far off the beaten path without neighbors or a nearby road, and in the middle of the night, there would be only ashes by the time anyone happened on the scene. The beeping of the cell phone changed the scenario. Suddenly the perp had to get out of there, probably before he found what he was looking for. And his victim was still alive. Maybe in his panic to get away, he had forgotten about that, forgotten to finish her off.

Ray got it all down and then re-read what he had just written. His fatigue was suddenly gone. He was awake and alert, everything coming into focus. He could see the scene, the interior of the cabin: the bright light from scores of small halogen spots positioned around the interior, the golden glow reflecting off the pine paneling that covered the walls and ceiling, the art—panels of bright wool yarn, some in complex designs, others free-form, and some with colors that were more muted. And then an elaborate array of electronics—computers, cameras, video equipment. And books, shelves of books.

As Ray and Sue had discussed, aside from a few tall kitchen stools near an eating area, probably tossed aside during the assault, everything seemed to be in order. Ray came back to his earlier assumption, whatever the perp was after had to be on the computer. He underlined that thought, paused, and reconsidered what he had just written.
Is this conclusion too easy?
he pondered.

Then the video was running in Ray’s head again—the beep of the text message, the perp panicking, rushing from the house, smashing the police car, and finally the destruction of the truck.
Then what?
Ray thought,
the prep had to get out of there.
Then he backed up in his thinking, looking again at the questions surrounding the truck.
Why the truck? There were lots of other ways of getting there: walking, skis, show shoes, snowmobile, car. The first three could be done silently, offering an element of surprise. What had the perp originally planned to do with the truck? Return it?

Ray pulled a small yellow pad from the shelf under his desk and began making a list of items he wanted to discuss with Sue and perhaps Molly:

Truck—evidence?

Robbery, something else?

Why texting rather than voice?

Any personal connection between Kinver and Manton?

Ray looked at his watch and checked the time. Picking up his phone, he called Sarah’s cell. Sarah’s voice was instantly on the line, asking the caller to leave a message.

“Ten-thirty our time,” said Ray after the tone. “Wonder where you are and when you’ll be home?”

He switched off the phone and returned to his journal. Then he looked back at the yellow pad. There were other things swirling in his head, but fatigue was settling in again. He screwed the top back on the pen and returned it and the journal to their place in the desk.

11.

Ray awakened to the smell of coffee and kitchen sounds, a dishwasher being emptied, pans being set on the stove. He rolled out of bed, setting his feet on the floor, pushing to his feet, his hand against the firm surface of the mattress. He limped into the bathroom, his leg still stiff and sore at the beginning of the day, a flashback to memories he was trying to escape.

He pulled his robe from a hook on the bathroom door. A vision of Sarah flashed across his brain as he moved toward the kitchen. It was shattered by a couple of sharp barks and an enthusiastic greeting by the terrier, Simone.

“How did you get in? I thought I set the lock,” he said, picking up the dog.

“You and your keypad lock,” Sue laughed.
 
“It was really hard to figure out the code. When 1-2-3-4 didn’t work, I put in your birth year. What can I say, you’re the poster child for crime prevention.”

“What’s this all about?” Ray asked, looking around and seeing that Sue was starting to make breakfast.

“This is about my still being your driver, and I’m supposed to make sure that you have three meals a day, remember? Your doctor didn’t want you to drive until next week, until after you saw him again.”

 
“But….”

“But what? All he’s got to say is that you’ve had a stroke, and your license will be suspended.”

“But I didn’t.”

“It’s one of the possibilities. Your blacking out is still a medical mystery, and I’m on the side of extreme caution. With Ben out and your health situation up in the air, I’m taking no chances. I don’t want to be in charge. You’re getting oatmeal for breakfast with a side of prunes.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Good for the heart and lots of antioxidants. That’s what my grandmother’s been doing for years, and she’s still going strong at ninety-three.” Sue was having fun, there was mirth in her tone and facial expressions.

“And what are you having?” pursued Ray. “I’ve never seen you eat anything but donuts and coffee, or maybe a Danish and a Diet Coke.”