Free Dead of Winter by P. J. Parrish Page B

in and Dale will give you a jump.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Louis sipped the coffee, closing his eyes as the warmth trickled through him. He was pouring a second cup when Dale came through the front door, offering a cheerful “good morning.” When Dale returned from the locker room, Louis was waiting at the grating of the evidence room.
    “What are you doing here so early?” Dale asked.
    “Couldn’t sleep. I need the Pryce file cabinet.”
    Dale snapped the keys off his belt. “Sign the log and note the time.”
    Louis went to the counter, flipped open the ledger and signed in.
    “You want me to bring it out?” Dale asked.
    “Grab me that stool. I’ll just stay in here.”
    Dale slid a rolling stool over to him and Louis wheeled it into the small room. The ceiling-high plywood shelves towered over him, sagging with age and the weight of decades of boxed and bagged evidence. Everything was sealed with orange tape and dated with wrappers’ initials. On one shelf were confiscated weapons: broken guns, knives, power tools. Louis stood up to turn on the light. His eye caught a Ziploc bag with a pair of women’s panties inside. The tag read CUNNINGHAM RAPE, 69-23119.
    Louis sat down and pulled open the top drawer of the file cabinet from Stephanie Pryce. He wanted one more look before they sent it back to Flint. He sifted through the folders, pulling out one that said RECEIPTS. It was crammed with bills for gas, dry cleaning, a new holster, boots and other job-related expenses. Pryce must have been saving these for his taxes.
    As Louis slipped it back in its place, he noticed another file wedged inside of it. He pulled it out; it was labeled RÉSUMÉ and he knew immediately that he had missed it last night. Inside were a dozen crisp copies of Pryce’s résumé, clippings of employment ads and a few letters. A familiar letterhead caught his eye: The City of Detroit. He pulled out the letter, addressed to Pryce at his home. Due to budget cuts, the city is not adding additional officers at this time...
    Louis smiled wanly. So Pryce had been trying to make it to the big time, too. He thumbed through the other letters, his smile fading. There were at least a dozen letters of inquiry and almost as many rejections, the oldest dating back to February 1982. Pryce had joined the Loon Lake force in 1981. If this file was any indication he sure grew bored here quickly.
    But that made no sense. Stephanie Pryce said they were happy in Loon Lake. Maybe Pryce didn’t tell her he was looking for another job. Who knew what went on between husbands and wives?
    Louis set the résumé file aside and continued on through the rest. Forty-five minutes later, in the second drawer, he came across a well-worn yellow legal pad that he also hadn’t noticed last night. The top binding was filled with doodles like the ones on the desk blotter. He went quickly through the pages: more doodles amid Pryce’s small, hard-to-read handwriting. A few numbers but nothing that registered.
    Slowing down now, he flipped to the last page of the pad, looking for anything relevant to Pryce’s last days. He kept going, reading each page, until he got to the top again. It was dated from last summer. It contained brief notes about the burglary of a tourist cabin Jesse had mentioned.
    Louis tossed the pad on the floor in disgust. Shit. Nothing...absolutely nothing.
    He stared at the open drawer of the cabinet, and he kicked it closed. His eyes fell on the legal pad, lying face-down on the floor. Doodles, more damn doodles. The whole back of the pad was one giant paisley doodle that fanned out in elaborate concentric circles. In the center was one number — 61829.
    Louis wheeled the stool to the room entrance. “Hey, Dale, come here a sec.”
    Dale looked up from his computer and came over.
    Louis held out the pad. “Look at this number. Any thoughts?”
    “Too short for a social or phone,” Dale offered.
    Louis stared at the number. It was probably nothing but