Ice Run by Steve Hamilton

Author:Steve Hamilton [Hamilton, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Suspense
ISBN: 0312301219
Google: 8GS46hdO1VQC
Amazon: B005SNGV70
Barnesnoble: B005SNGV70
Goodreads: 785402
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2004-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

When I had the heater going enough to use my hands, I dialed Mac Henderson’s number on my cell phone. It rang a few times, then a woman answered. I asked for Mac. She asked me to hold for a moment. A few seconds passed. Then I heard a male voice on the line. It was a deep voice. It didn’t sound like that of an old man. I introduced myself, told him that Roy Maven had given me his number.

“Roy Maven!” the man said. “How is that old bird doing? I haven’t heard from him in ten years.”

“He’s just fine,” I said. “As mellow as ever.”

That got the man laughing. “Roy was a real live wire back in the day,” he said. “I don’t imagine that’s changed much.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if you’d be willing to discuss an old case.”

“I’ve been off the job for almost twenty years now, but go ahead.”

“The man’s name was Jean Reynaud—”

“Murdered outside the Ojibway Hotel. Shot in the back of the head.”

“Okay, I guess you remember.”

“I’ll tell you why, Mr. McKnight. In twenty-seven years on the police force, I might have seen, I don’t know, maybe seven or eight murders? Were you living up there back in the seventies?”

“No,” I said, “but I know things were a lot different then.”

“Yeah, different is one word for it. But I tell you, even with all that other stuff going on, we never had many murders in town. That’s not counting the lake, of course. Old Superior, she’d kill a half-dozen men every year. I’m sure she still does.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyway, what did I say, seven murders? Maybe eight? Every single one of them I solved except one.”

“Jean Reynaud.”

“Exactly. I got absolutely nowhere with that one. No weapon recovered. No witnesses. The victim has no apparent ties to anyone in the area at all. I mean, absolutely nothing. Really no physical evidence at all, aside from a .45 caliber slug that went right through the back of the poor man’s head and out through his face. Aside from that, we didn’t have a thing to go on.”

“I was a police officer myself for eight years,” I said. “Down in Detroit. So I think I know what you mean. There’s no such thing as a totally random crime.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Just what you say. Yet this was as close to random as I ever saw, before or since.”

“I saw the old report today. Apparently, you interviewed members of Mr. Reynaud’s family?”

“Yes, that’s right. Let me see … He was a Canadian, right? I had to cross over and go to this little town on the North Channel…”

“Blind River.”

“Yes, that’s right. God, it’s all coming back to me now. Isn’t it funny how that works? I haven’t thought about it for so long … I remember, the family had already been notified, of course. This was a couple of days afterward. I went out to this big farmhouse. Mr. Reynaud’s parents lived there, and I think he and his wife were living there, too.

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