Free Winter of frozen dreams by Karl Harter

tear skipped out of her eye. Davies brushed it away. She invited him to walk her home.
    Kurth trailed them. He feigned a call from a street phone booth and observed the push and pull as Barbara attempted to persuade Davies to come up to her apartment for a cup of hot tea. Kurth expected to lose him.
    The couple climbed the stairs as Kurth waited below. Barbaras litany was powerful. "If you love me, Jerry . . ." was her tack, and Davies wavered. He professed his love hastily, as if it were a cumbersome weight that he feared would crush him. His fervent cliches echoed in the stairwell. Barbara whispered, sweet and enticing, but Daviess better judgment and the strict lecture from Lulling held forth.
    They did not kiss good night. Barbara stroked his cheek with her fingers, tenderly, and she vanished behind the door to apartment 306.
    Davies stood there. It took him two full minutes to

    pry his work boots from the terrazzo tiles and to descend the stairs. The nights cold, which had been biting at Kurth's toes, sobered Davies. He paced steadily to his car.
    Whatever secrets Barbara had spoken during their moments together Davies refused to repeat to Kurth, who joined him on the Lake Street parking ramp. The confounded lover shrugged his shoulders to Kurths questions, and the cop didn't push. His assignment was to trail and listen and to make certain Davies got home safely.
    Before Davies drove away, he rolled down the car window and displayed a weak smile. He looked like a turtle, his neck craning out of the fur collar of his parka. "She said we have to stick together. Tell Mr. Doyle the engagements still on—probably for the spring/'
    18
    By December 28th police had executed four search warrants for Barbara Hoffman's apartment. They had gathered little evidence for their efforts. Jerry Davies had been subjected to a polygraph exam, which he passed. What he had told Lulling on Christmas and expanded for Doyle the next day seemed to be the extent of his involvement and knowledge concerning Harry Berge's homicide. Al Mackey had appeared at Doyle's office claiming to represent Ms. Hoffman. Her cooperation with police investigators was asked for, but Mackey denied her participation in Berge's death or the disposal of the body. She would make no statements and answer no questions unless subpoenaed.
    It was mid-morning. Doyle completed administrative work. Nagging in the back of his mind was the material on Linda Millar. Who was she, and what were her papers doing in Barbara Hoffman's possession?
    He took a phone call from Ken Buhrow, an attorney in nearby Cambridge. Buhrow had information on Berge's estate that he wanted to volunteer. Doyle jotted down notes.
    Buhrow had handled the few legal chores the Berge

    family had required, and when Alma Berge died he advised Harry to amend his will, as his mother was the sole beneficiary of his property and his life insurance. For five years Berge did not heed the counsel.
    On October 6, 1977, Berge dropped in without an appointment. His mood was jocular and unharried. The acquaintances shared coffee, swapped stories, and moseyed around to business. Harry wanted his will changed.
    The A-frame house on U.S. 51 and his life insurance policies were to be left to a woman named Linda Millar. Buhrow politely inquired about her relationship to Berge. Harry Berge said that she was his fiancee. He wanted things to be in proper order for her. Buhrow recommended that Berge wait until the marriage had taken place before instituting the changes. Harry shrugged. The marriage was close to happening. Besides, he wasn't seeking advice, Berge said, friendly but firm.
    Buhrow had studied the man across the desk for indication of stress or pressure or anxiety. There was none. His impression was that Berge looked healthier than he had ever remembered him. Though the change requested was straightforward, Buhrow stalled and told Harry the paperwork would take a week to complete. Maybe the extra couple days would