Gingerbread Man Read online

  "Vince? Vince, what the hell was it... ? Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, getting to his feet to lean over him. "Was it the Prague kids? Was it them?" When he didn't answer, Jerry swore and turned to go back inside.

  Vince got up, grabbed his partner, jerked him around. "Don't go in there."

  “The hell I won't." Jerry pulled free.

  Vince punched him. Just like that, he clocked his partner in the jaw, knocked him flat on his back. Jerry lay there, blinking up at him in shocked silence.

  "No man with kids has any business seeing what's in that room," he muttered. Then he stepped over Jerry to reach into the car for the radio mike, and, keying it, requested a coroner and a forensics team.

  Three days later, Vince and Jerry sat in Chief Rogers' office. Jerry and the chief seemed to be taking turns shooting worried looks Vince's way, but he did his best to ignore them.

  The chief didn't waste a lot of time before coming to the point. "You two are off the Prague case."

  Vince surged to his feet "What do mean? Jesus, chief, we don't even have the autopsy report yet!"

  The chief held up both hands and kept talking. "The FBI has it. They've taken over. They have three other cases with what they say are striking similarities in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Jersey. They've got a task force in place to deal with it, and they don't want any locals stepping on their toes."

  "That's bullshit," Vince snapped. "I've been working this case for almost a month, dammit. I have to get this guy."

  "You're off the case, O'Mally."

  "I have to get this guy."

  The chief glanced sideways at Jerry, then focused on Vince again. "Sit down."

  Vince sat, but stiffly. He braced himself on the edge of the chair, his hands balled into fists on his knees.

  "When's the last time you shaved, O'Mally? Huh?" The chief eyed him, looking more concerned than stern. "How long since you've eaten a full meal, or had a few hours' sleep? Have you walked by a mirror lately?"

  Vince averted his eyes. "I've been busy."

  "You're running on empty. You can't possibly be thinking clearly. Now, I know that crime scene got to you. It got to all of us. The forensics team that went in there is undergoing group counseling, and they admit they're having trouble. And these guys have seen damn near everything."

  "I'm fine," Vince insisted.

  "No. I don't think so. Do you think he's fine, Jerry?"

  Jerry shook his head. "No sir, I don't think he's fine at all."

  "Jerry, for crying out—"

  "I'm sorry partner, but you've been messed up since you came out of that room. I don't know what the hell to do about it. You insisted on talking to Sara Prague yourself—breaking the news, when I begged you to let someone else do it. When you came out of her house that day you looked... dead, Vince. You looked dead. You're drowning in this case, man, and I don't know how to pull you out."

  Vince tipped his head back, rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

  I’m gonna give you a choice, O'Mally," the chief said slowly. “Take a thirty-day leave, get out of here, get away from this thing, and see if you can shake it off."

  "No way. I'm seeing this thing through to the end, Feds or no Feds. What's behind door number two, Chief?"

  "An hour a day with Dr. Feltzer."

  "The shrink from hell?" The chief nodded. "For how long?" Vince asked.

  "Until she says you're passably sane."

  "Hell, she didn't think I was passably sane the day they hired me."

  "Your decision. Either way, you're off this case. I want everything you have on my desk in ten minutes. That goes for you, too, Jerry."

  "So you can turn it all over to the Feds?" Vince asked, disgusted by the thought.

  "Those are my orders. After that, I want you to go home. Take the rest of the day off, and let me know what you decide—the leave or the shrink."

  "But—"

  "I'm done talking," the chief said. "You can go now."

  "But, Chief, I—"

  "Go. Now." He lifted an arm, pointed at the door.

  Vince stormed out of the chief's office and headed for his desk. Jerry was right on his heels, but he ignored his partner as he pulled file folder after file folder off the sloping stacks on his desk and dropped them into the little wastebasket beside it. Papers flew like confetti. He could feel everyone in the place looking at him as if he'd lost it. He ignored them all, opened drawers, rummaging through them, gathering up every scribbled note and every paperclip that had any connection to the Prague case. Slamming one drawer closed he yanked open another, and then another, until at last, he opened the drawer with the pile of framed photos inside.

  He stopped, frozen, and stared down at the freckled faces. His shoulders quaked, but he caught himself, held himself in a hard, merciless grip.

  "Those … probably ought to be sent back to the mother," Jerry said, his voice hoarse.

  "Yeah."

  "I'll take care of it for you."

  Vince nodded, then reached in and picked up the most recent photo. He handed it to Jerry. "All but this one, okay?"

  "Vince?"

  "I want the Feds to have this one. Tell 'em to look at it every day. Tell 'em this is what that bastard killed, not that pile of paperwork. This."

  Jerry nodded and took the framed photo. "So ... you gonna take the time off, or the treatment?"

  "I don't know yet." He picked up the wastebasket, handed that to Jerry as well. "Give this to the chief for me." Reaching for the computer on his desk, he peeled off a half dozen yellow sticky notes, wadded them up and tossed them into the trash can as well. Lastly, Vince ejected a flash drive and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

  "What's that, Vince?"

  "What's what?"

  Jerry scowled. "What did you do? Did you keep a copy of your files on this case?"

  "Shit, pal, when did you ever see me organized enough to think of something like that?"

  "Vince. You gotta let this one go."

  Vince met his partner's eyes for one long moment, then looked away. "I'm going home. I'll see you later."

  Jerry sighed as Vince left the office.

  Halfway back to his apartment, three miles from the police station, Vince glanced down and noticed his coat lying on the passenger seat. It had been warm for this late in the fall. He hadn't worn the coat since ...

  The kids. The house. The book. His senses prickled. He'd turned the book in, and then forgot he had. But there had been something...

  Slamming on his brakes, he jerked the wheel and brought the Jeep Wrangler to a jerky stop on the shoulder. He grabbed his coat, searched the pockets and found his dog-eared notepad. Flipping it open, he read what he had written there: The Gingerbread Man. Dilmun Public Library, Dilmun, NY.

  TWO

  IT TOOK FIFTEEN minutes to walk from the neat little house on Lakeview to the Dilmun Police Department on East Main. Holly knew this because she walked it every weekday—unless there was a blizzard or something. It was one of her favorite parts of the day, her walk to work. Mostly because of the little girl who walked beside her.

  She looked down at Bethany, seven going on fifteen, as the little girl waved to her mother standing by her front door. Her mother blew her a kiss, and Bethany blew one back, her blonde curls gleaming in the morning sun.

  God, she reminded Holly so much of Ivy.

  Holly glanced east toward the crooked finger shape of Cayuga Lake, partly to hide the rush of emotion from her favorite next-door neighbor. "Look at the way the sun gleams on the water," she said. "It's the most peaceful thing in the world, isn't it?"

  "Especially now that all the summer people are gone," Bethany said.

  Tourist season was over. There was no breeze as they walked along together, but the tangy scent of dead leaves and a crisp autumn bite flavored the air. It was good here. Nothing bad ever happened in Dilmun.

  She let her gaze travel farther along the lake's shore, past a half-dozen empty rental cabins that l
ined the southern shore, to the hulking shape of Reginald D'Voe's Gothic mansion on the far side. "Look, Beth. The leaves have fallen enough so you can see Reggie's house from here."

  "Creepy!" Bethany remarked, with a smile that said she loved it.

  The house hunched above the town on a small hill, separated from it by a thick stand of woods, and the narrowest part of the lake. That mansion had always reminded Holly of an aging vulture.

  "Have you ever been inside?" Bethany asked.

  "No. Have you?"

  "No, but they say old Reggie is going to have a Halloween party this year. Every kid in town is invited. I might go."

  Holly glanced down at the girl with her brows raised. "A party? Really? I thought Reggie was a recluse." Bethany wrinkled her nose and tilted her head to one side. "You know, a hermit?"

  "Oh." Bethany shrugged. "I don't know. Mom says he used to have a Halloween party every year, way back in the old days."

  Holly nodded. Reginald D'Voe, the town's favorite claim to fame, had moved away for several years, but just the year before last he'd come back, taking up residence once again. As little as anyone saw of him. Holly figured most of the locals never even knew he'd been gone.

  "Have you ever seen any of his movies?" Bethany asked.

  "Hasn't everyone?"

  Bethany giggled. "He comes to school sometimes. He is a great story reader."

  "Is he?"

  "The best!" Bethany exclaimed with an enthusiastic nod.

  "So you haven't decided if you're going to his party?"

  "I don't know. Everyone who goes has to wear a costume, and I don't have a costume for Halloween yet." She shrugged. "Still, Mom says it will be the biggest party of the whole year."

  They came to the intersection where Bethany had to turn off to go to the school. Last year, Holly had walked the girl every step of the way. Now, Bethany insisted on traveling that last block alone. And in deference to her pride, Holly had to let her, though it almost killed her to release the girl's hand every time.

  Bethany waved. "Bye, Holly!"

  "Bye, hon. Have a good day. Be careful."

  Grinning, Bethany skipped off, blonde hair flying behind her. She joined several other kids heading for the school at the far end of the block. Holly didn't start walking. Instead she stood near the corner and watched them all the way to the school building. And she kept watching, until they got safely through the front doors.

  Only then did she continue on her way to work.

  She had to walk through the tourist section of town to get to the police station at the other end, but she didn't mind. She loved walking the tourist strip this time of year, when it was all but deserted, other than a few shopkeepers just unlocking their front doors, or sweeping colorful fallen leaves off their section of sidewalk. The trees were nearly bare now. Skeletal.

  The strip ended suddenly at the intersection of Main and Fairfax. Here was the barber shop, the small grocery store-slash-gas station, the library, Mr. Lee's Ice Cream Emporium, which was closed now that the tourist season had ended. It closed at the same time every year.

  She liked that about this town. Its predictability. Its regularity. She thrived on calm, order, and a good solid routine. Serene waters were the kind she needed in her life, she mused, glancing toward the ever-present lake. She didn't do well in stormy seas.

  She was so intent on looking at the lake that had become a fixture in her life that she didn't see the man standing outside the police station until she heard his impatient thumping on the door, and his deep voice, saying, "What the hell is the matter with this town, anyway?"

  Great. A stumbling block in the path of her daily routine. She hated when that happened. Scowling, she picked up the pace, walking right up behind the man. He was bending over, hands cupped on either side of his eyes as he peered through the glass, trying to see between the lettering of the words Dilmun Police Department.

  "Actually, there's nothing the matter with this town," she said, coming to a stop behind him. "Not to those of us who live here, anyway."

  He straightened, not turning around. "And to those who don't?" he asked, meeting her gaze reflected in the window. She couldn't make out much of his face. The glass was tinted. Her impressions were three. Big. Dark. And moody.

  "Those who don't," she said, "are free to leave if they don't like it here."

  He finally turned and faced her. Holly shivered as a cloud passed over the sun, and its shadow slid over her. The man frowned and nodded once. "I didn't mean to insult your town. I was just surprised to find a police department closed."

  She crossed her arms over her chest, the way her mother did sometimes, and she just looked at him. His face was craggy—far from handsome. His jaw was too hard, and his chin too clefted. His nose was too big, and his eyes too far apart. He looked tired and worn down ... but that was more a mental impression than a physical one.

  "Maybe I should start over again," he said.

  She shrugged. "The tourist area is back that way," she told him, pointing.

  "I'm not a tourist"

  "Well, you're not a resident." Frowning, she glanced at her watch. "And you're really lousing up my schedule. Do you mind?" She reached into her pocket for her keys, and motioned for him to move aside.

  He moved, then stood there while she unlocked it. "Don't tell me you're the police chief," he said.

  She shot him an irritated glance. "Why couldn't I be?"

  He held up a hand, ticked off his list on his fingers. "Too young, too pretty, too mouthy, too unfriendly, too—"

  "Do you have some kind of business with Chief Mallory?"

  "Then you're not him?"

  She opened the door and walked inside. "No," she said. "I'm not him. He'll be in at eight. If you want to see him, come back then." She released the door, letting it fall closed on the irritating man, and turned to get herself back on track. Damn, the clock read 7:50. She always got in by 7:45. Okay, okay, just focus, she told herself. She stood there for a moment and drew a deep breath. Then she moved through the small police department with brisk efficiency, quickly resuming her established routine. She snapped on the reception area lights, opened the blinds... then paused again to look out at the lake in the distance. Something had changed. Tiny whitecaps crisscrossed the surface now, as if the glassy stillness of a short while ago had been shattered. "Must be a storm coming," she muttered, glancing worriedly at traces of dark clouds just beginning to gather in the sky.

  Turning, she unlocked the next door and went through it to the larger part of the station. Her alcove to the right had a sliding plastic bi-fold shutter over the window between it and the reception area. To the left were files, weapons locked in a big case, and Bill's and Ray's desks. Straight ahead was the chief's office, and beside that a small restroom and the stair door. The cells were farther along the hall, with a clear line of sight all the way back to the reception area when the door was opened. Holly continued turning on lights, opening blinds. She unlocked the chief's office door and fired up his computer for him. Back in her own area, she turned on the lights, the radio, then the computer, in that order. A quick check of her desk told her everything was exactly as she'd left it. She straightened her pencil cup, moved a paperweight an inch to the left. Then she opened the sliding plastic barrier between her desk and the reception area.

  That man was standing on the other side, looking right at her.

  She almost jumped out of her skin, jerking backward. One hand pressed to her chest in reaction.

  "I decided I'd rather wait for the chief in here. It's getting kind of nippy outside."

  She closed her eyes slowly, waited for her heart to resume its normal beat, consciously controlled her breathing, then opened her eyes. Focusing on the man again, she said, "Do you have a crime to report or something Mr...?"

  "It's detective, ma'am. Detective Vince O'Mally, S.P.D."

  She lifted her brows. He said "S.P.D." as if it was supposed to mean something. He said it the way TV cops
said "N.Y.P.D." or "L.A.P.D." He was that full of himself. "S.P.D.?" she asked. "Would that be ... Scranton? Saratoga? Sherburne?"

  "Syracuse."

  She nodded, averting her eyes. For some reason it didn't surprise her he came from there... or that he'd brought foul winds with him. She didn't like him. She wanted him to leave. "Have a seat. Detective. The chief will be here in..."—she looked at her watch—"five minutes. And thanks to you, his coffee won't be ready."

  "Thanks to me? What did I do?"

  She just frowned at him and hurried back to the rest-room, snatching the water pitcher from her shelf on the way. She flicked on the restroom lights and then filled the pitcher with tap water. Finished, she carried it back to the reception area. His coffee pot stood on a cart against the west wall, between two small leather sofas. She poured the water into it and rummaged underneath for the coffee and filters, while the man observed her every action. She could feel his eyes burning holes into her back, and she was so rattled by his presence that her hand shook as she measured the French roast into the basket, scattering bits of coffee all over the cart's surface. "Damn." She slammed the basket into place, hit the on button, and immediately looked at her watch. "Damn."

  "Are you okay, Red?"

  She pivoted to face him. He wasn't sitting as she'd told him to. In fact, he was standing only a foot or two behind her. "My name is not Red. It's Holly. Holly Newman."

  "And you make the coffee."

  "Among other things."

  "And you take your job very seriously."

  Her glare heated. She felt it heat. It should have wilted him by now. He should have smoke curling from the ends of his dark hair. "Excuse me?"

  He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. There was something dark about the man, and his eyes seemed hidden among shadows. They were blue, but not vivid. Dull, though she felt that was not their natural state.

  "It's not like the coffee being five minutes late is going to bring about the ruin of Dilmun, is it?"