Castle Danger--Woman on Ice Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  PART TWO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  PART THREE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  A Chat with Anthony Neil Smith

  The next book

  About the Book

  “Hey, Manny here. I’m a cop in Duluth, Minnesota. Vacation paradise in the summer, but some of the longest, coldest winters in the USA, with more snow and ice in one blizzard than most people see in a lifetime. And we all know what happens to people during long, cold winters — they die. They commit suicide or start fights out of pure boredom or because they’re depressed or worried that the sun will never return. Or they get killed. If you want to make sure the person you’ve killed won’t be found, just drop them under the ice of Lake Superior. Not much ever floats up from its depths again. Well, except this one morning …”

  When a dead woman is fished out of Lake Superior, Manny Jahnke is there to discover the shocking truth: The woman in the ice is actually a man. Before he can learn more, the corpse goes back under water, together with his partner, never to be seen again. Now Manny has a missing victim, a new partner he likes even less than the old one, and a case no one wants solved. Or so it seems. Manny grows obsessed with the woman in the ice whose secrets prove to be as vast as the Great Lake itself and whose enemies turn out to be powerful enough to keep those secrets hidden. Only one thing is certain: if Manny survives, he’ll never be the same man again.

  About the Author

  Anthony Neil Smith is a Professor and the Chair of English at Southwest Minnesota State University. He is the author of various previous novels. Originally from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, he now lives on the frozen prairie with his wife, two needy dogs and two sneaky cats.

  Readers can connect with Neil on various social media platforms:

  Wikipedia: Anthony Neil Smith

  Twitter: @anthonynsmith

  Anthony Neil Smith

  CASTLE

  DANGER

  WOMAN ON ICE

  »be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  »be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  Copyright © 2017 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is written in American English.

  Written by Anthony Neil Smith

  Edited by Len Wanner

  Cover illustration: © shutterstock/Guas; shutterstock/Husjak

  Cover design: © Frank & Reed, Stuttgart

  E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

  ISBN 978-3-7325-3039-7

  www.be-ebooks.com

  PART ONE

  1

  So you want to hear a story? Well then, relax.

  I sat in the cramped interview room, cinder block and fake-wood paneling, facing the familiar two-way mirror over a fold-up card table, and a video camera mounted in the top corner. Cold floor under my wet stockings, a hard chair under my numb ass. The camera rolled. A couple of detectives sat across from me, no table between us, uncomfortably close.

  “Happy to see me again, boys?” I crossed my legs. The detective nearest my knee scooted back, looking embarrassed. I was wet from being out in the snow. I was freezing. I had lost my coat, and my skirt was too short for this weather. My boots, ripped, filled with grit and slush, sat near the door, flopped over. My T-shirt stuck to me like a second skin.

  The detectives were from Minneapolis PD. In other words, several pay grades and zip codes fancier than me. Until recently, I had been a dutiful patrol cop in Duluth, a couple of hours north on the Lake Superior shore. At that moment, it felt a million miles away, but strangely enough, even goose-bumped and shivering, and with all my make-up running, this was one of the first times in years I’d felt at ease in my own skin.

  I had three years of so-so service in uniform, and I’d be lucky to stay out of jail after this stunt. Neither of the detectives believed a word I was saying, especially after what happened the first time we crossed paths, and I couldn’t blame them. I wasn’t making it easy. A murder suspect — no, worse than that: a cop killer — shouldn’t be so … flirty. Risqué. Whatever you wanted to call it.

  But first we had to wait around to see if the guy I shot was going to die.

  Nope. Not a chance. But they didn’t know it yet.

  One reminded me of an uncle from up around Hibbing — with a walrus mustache that looked heavier than his whole frame. The other was younger, wannabe military — no way he had served — no sideburns, thick shoulders. A family man. A Christian.

  They hadn’t asked me much yet, just established who I was, all that jazz. I was getting sick and tired of chattering my teeth. Worse, I was bored.

  So I said, “Would one of you kind sirs please let me borrow your coat?”

  They looked at each other. A grunt, a shrug. Eventually it was Walrus who did the chivalrous honor of draping his musty coat over my shoulders.

  “Thank you. That’s so sweet.”

  “Hmph.” Another shrug.

  “So,” I said. “Should I start with shooting my partner, or should I reach farther back?”

  The military man, Haupt, wouldn’t even look at me. But the man with the ‘stache, Engebretsen did. His eyes were tired, sad, but they never wavered.

  I kept on, “He wasn’t always my partner. I’ve only known him a few months. Look, gentlemen, I’m not saying I went about it the right way, but he left me no choice. It was him or me, and you’ve got to understand that, right? Have either of you ever shot a man in self-defense?”

  When Engebretsen spoke, it was a quiet rumble. “He didn’t have a gun on him. He didn’t have anything.”

  I nodded and clutched the lapels of my borrowed jacket together. “I know.”

  “What was so important that you needed us to bring you in? Did you think we’d go easier on you?”

  “I think I’d better wait just a little while longer.”

  “You should wait for your lawyer.”

  I lifted my chin. “He’s a very busy man, you know. He’s Mr. Worldwide.”

  They looked at each other again, not sure how to take a single word I said. So I told them I was kidding. The union would send someone soon enough, I said.

  It pained Haupt to hear Engebretsen tell me it would be okay, and we could wait if I wanted. I could tell by the way he furrowed his brow. But Engebretsen was right. Any smart perp would’ve kept his mouth shut and waited. Same with smart cops.

  Of course, I played dumb instead. “He had one when I shot him.”

  “Jesus.” Haupt dropped his pen on his pad and rubbed his face. “Can we … do we have to listen to this?”

  “If that’s what the officer wants, then yes. I suppose we do.” He turned to me. “Is that what you want, Officer Jahnke?”

  It felt like a taunt, him
calling me ‘Officer’. I took a sip of coffee, then held the paper cup in both hands. So warm. “Remember, I’m the one who called 911. I’ve got nothing to hide. But someone else sure as shit does.”

  They had found me on my knees on the bank of the Mississippi River, a stone’s throw from the Stone Arch Bridge, my new partner flat on his back, two shots in his chest, frozen slush washing over him. The paramedics were frantically working to save him, all the way from where he’d fallen, across the parking lot to the ambulance, then up into the back. The doors slammed and off it screamed. I identified myself, since neither of us was in uniform and neither of us belonged there. The Twin Cities were not our turf.

  At the sight of the cops, every eyewitness scrambled. I collapsed, exhausted from it all — the fight earlier and then actually having to shoot him. Asked for Haupt and Engebretsen. I didn’t want to talk to any other cops. Only those two would do. I ended up scraped, bruised, and freezing wet in the backseat of the squad car. My cheeks still stung. My knees ached whenever I moved my legs.

  I uncrossed and crossed them again. Once more, Haupt looked away.

  Okay, so I uncrossed them again, feet flat on the ground, and smoothed my skirt on my lap. “Am I bothering you? Would you like me to wipe off my lipstick first?”

  “And put on some goddamned pants.” Haupt got up and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  Engebretsen stayed put. “He’ll be back.” He gave me a fatherly grin, as if seeing a man — no, a fellow cop — dressed as a woman was something he came across every day. Maybe he did. Seemed to me the rainbow glowed pretty bright downtown. Some of those gay bars and clubs have been there forever, since the fifties, at least. He couldn’t hide his discomfort entirely, but he was trying real hard. I admired him for that. He was the type of detective I would like to be someday, if only, well … never mind.

  Engebretsen asked, “More coffee, Manny?”

  I smiled and handed over my cup. “Some Splenda, please?”

  Haupt was back before Engebretsen could even take the cup. Slightly out of breath — and without bothering to close the door on all those lookie-loos out there trying to grab a peek of me — he went straight to Engebretsen and whispered into his ear. I didn’t need to hear his exact words to know what it was all about. I tried not to grin. Okay, maybe a little grin.

  Engebretsen blinked. “The fuck?”

  Haupt nodded. That brow of his was working overtime. Engebretsen stood and wagged a finger at me.

  “Stay right here. We’ll be back.”

  Before he left, he turned back for my coffee cup. A small kindness. Hopefully he’d remember to bring it back. I thanked him.

  Then I was all by my lonesome. I checked the bruise on my cheek in the two-way mirror. Couldn’t cover that one up. It would stay with me until it faded. My mascara, good lord, it didn’t matter if you were a man or a woman or something in-between, no one looked innocent with that shit running down their face. I stretched out my legs, smooth except for a couple of spots around the left knee where I had missed. After that, nothing to do but wait. I yawned, drifted, laid my head on the card table pushed against the wall under the mirror.

  Right then I was thinking they might let me go, or they might let me twist in the wind for a while because I was a freak. A fellow cop dolled up like a woman. Fuck that. I am a woman. I know I am, and one day biology will back me up. Just not today.

  So maybe they’d tease, scare me, tell me bad stories about what happens to people like me in lock-up. But what they couldn’t do was charge me with murder. Because what Haupt had whispered to Engebretsen — sure as shit — was, “The body’s gone. Disappeared.”

  Just like we’d planned.

  A few months earlier …

  My name is Herman Jahnke. I’m twenty-nine years old, born and raised in Minnesota. Everyone calls me “Manny.”

  I’m a cop. Or, I was. Past tense.

  Most mornings, I woke up before sunrise, trudged down the hard-wood hallway into my airy kitchen, downed a couple cans of Doubleshot Espresso, and sat down in front of my computer, stark naked except for thick socks. Then I’d hit the hardcore porn. It had eaten away all my jogging time.

  Before the accident last fall, when I was still engaged to Whitney, I looked at “vanilla” porn, sure, but only when she wasn’t around, or asleep, or visiting her parents down in the Cities. Didn’t all guys do that?

  Whitney had never been that much of a prude — happy to take a couple of naked selfies in the bathroom mirror now and then, which she always erased from my phone when I wasn’t looking. But after the accident — I’ll tell you about that later, I promise — my junk withered and mostly useless, and with Whitney gone within a week of realizing I was going to be messed up down there for a long time, I’d had enough of Hustler. I needed the harder shit.

  One caveat though: None of the girls could look like Whitney. No blondes, no big tits. At first, I had a thing for cougars, like fake teacher-student flicks or “mom seducing son’s best friend”. That quickly slid into male humiliation — cockblocks, cocklocks, cuckolds, and sissy boys. Not being able to do anything about it, that was the rush. It pissed me off, but I needed to see more. Black-on-white gangbangs, monster cocks, degradation. That last one summed up my life after the accident. I was helpless when it came to sex. Nothing I could do. Not a goddamned thing.

  Then it was pegging — girls with strap-ons going after guys from behind. And the abuse they lashed on these guys while fucking them raw, Jesus Christ.

  Another step, trannies. Shemales. It had been a long time since I’d looked at trannie porn. Something about them made me feel, I don’t know. I mean, this was porn. It was all set up, all about money, right? This wasn’t real. But then, how did these people act in real life? Were they normal? Did their whole world revolve around their cocks? Were they gay?

  Some were men playing dress up. I’d heard of that, sure. I’d watched Eddie Izzard. But some of them, I swear, were women. Real women, everywhere except for their crotches. They’d stand up nice and tall and macho and fuck the daylights out of these men, just normal looking men. Maybe slightly more muscled than everyday guys. Then, after the tranny got off, the guy would get up and go after the tranny’s ass.

  Whatever it was, it reminded me of things I’d looked at back when I was a teenager, sneaking looks on my parents’ computer, then retreating to my bedroom with some serious emotions, that’s what we’ll call them. Mixed-up emotions.

  I began to feel ashamed at how much of my free time was devoured by watching. Just watching. Feeling some sort of urge to do something, anything, about the way this made me feel, but I couldn’t. I kept watching. When I got home after work, more watching. No more TV, no more video games, no ice-fishing, no snowmobiling with fellow cops to slam beer and trade stories. I wasn’t feeling like myself any more. Or at least not what I had believed that “self” to be.

  I used to run five miles right after those pre-sunrise Doubleshots, but it didn’t seem worth it anymore. Every morning, goose pimples all over because the radiator heat in my apartment sucked — the top unit in an old house from 1905. My space heater and socks did their best, as my body heat slowly ramped up and my blood reached boiling point at the sight of all those men fucking transsexuals.

  Yesterday, it had been another bisexual threesome — two men, one tranny. The shemale playing “the teacher”, but what a smile. A smile you’d suck a dick for.

  I went through the motions — mindlessly clicking “play”, wondering how this sort of thing happened. How would you even find people up for this? It was all just theater.

  The more practical thing would have been to think of ways to win Whitney back. I could probably have done it, too. I could’ve pretended to be “that sort of guy” again, the good-ole-boy, the jock, the hunter, the beer-drinker, everything except for a properly-working sex organ.

  Instead, I was getting off on all the different ways she could tell me No. It felt better than sex. If I couldn
’t come without all sorts of problems, I damn well wanted to kick somebody, and I would never — in real life — even think of touching a woman with violence. She didn’t deserve that, but I’m just saying, you hear me? Can’t anyone understand?

  Now, out on the streets, in uniform, that was different.

  But aside from that, all I had to kick was my couch, and I’d kicked the living fuck out of it. One end was sagging, the frame turning to dust from all the abuse I’d heaped on that fucking couch. Don’t even sit on that end anymore. For all intents and purposes, that end of the couch was Whitney.

  That’s not true. I didn’t wish her any harm. I didn’t tell anyone, but honestly, I was glad she’d left. It was a relief.

  That couch? That was me I was kicking.

  Why was this morning different? It shouldn’t have been, but it was. Instead of heading for the fridge and the computer screen, I laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling until the dark faded to gray. I turned and curled up like a child, covered my face with my sheets and my grandmother’s quilt, the one that had helped smother the flames. I held off on having to piss. My mouth was dry, dry, dry, but I didn’t want my Doubleshots, god no, the taste, just thinking about it …

  How many more of these mornings would I be able to take? How many days? Everything I’d worked on — this façade of mine, a hurly-burly mask — undone by a moment of weakness? I had read up on reconstructive surgery, had even called about an appointment, but I chickened out at the last minute, couldn’t exactly say why.

  Give me guys with guns and knives.

  Give me drunks who think they are invincible.

  Give me battered girlfriends screaming and clawing to stop me from taking their abusers to jail. But a fifteen-minute talk with a man who could make me “normal” again? I was so afraid, I threw up for an hour before deciding not to go.

  My phone blared a hot hip-hop tune from last year, the kind I should never have got, never mind kept this long. Almost embarrassing to have the phone ring in public now. I usually tried to turn off the noise as fast as I could. Today, I let the damn thing go all the way, then it started over. I cleared my throat, picked it up, and thumbed the screen, not even sure I could talk.