Bodies in Winter Read Online Free Page B

come back a few days later, when stray recollections surface on their own.
    But Adele had other ideas. ‘Think hard,’ she told her witnesses. ‘Is there anything else you remember? I don’t care how insignificant.’
    The Hinckles exchanged the sort of pregnant look only possible between long-married couples. Then Eva crossed her arms over her chest before turning to Adele. A decision had been made.
    â€˜I think they were black.’ Eva again looked at her husband, her expression this time defiant. ‘The way that gun was twisted around, it’s how black gangsters hold their guns. You know, in the movies.’ She gave her husband a poke. ‘And the way they walked back to the car, with that shoulder thing they do, and bouncing up and down? That swagger? That’s a black thing.’
    Oscar Hinckle was quick to reply. ‘I didn’t see nothin’ like that.’ He ran a finger across his snow-white mustache, the wiry hairs rippling beneath his touch like an animal seeking affection. ‘Those two guys, they were all business. They didn’t say one word to each other. They just got in that car and peeled the hell outta there.’

THREE
    E llen Lodge met us at the door of her single-family home and quickly ushered us through the living and dining rooms. Our progress was followed by eight, very silent children. Adele and I had been able to hear the children as we approached the front door, a muffled din we expected to become raucous when the door was opened. Instead, everything stopped the minute we came into view. The kids were toddlers, old enough to walk, old enough to have minds of their own. They pinned us with unwavering stares. Who were we? What were we doing here? Was something bad about to happen?
    A second woman, not introduced to us, knelt beside a bench covered with little bowls of paint. She was staring at us, too.
    We were finally led into a large kitchen and the door closed behind us. Like the outer rooms, the kitchen had been pressed into service. Two trays stacked with sandwiches on paper plates rested on a table in the center of the room. A bubbling crock pot on a chipped counter was flanked by packages of Oreo cookies.
    â€˜I haven’t said anything to the kids, but they know somethin’s wrong. No sense makin’ it any worse than what it is.’ Ellen Lodge was a small, bony woman just entering middle-age. She had a noticeably slender neck, a droopy nose and lobeless ears set very close to the side of her head. Thick and wiry, her graying hair was cut short enough to be termed butch, especially in a conservative neighborhood like Ridgewood.
    â€˜I’m sorry about your loss,’ I said. ‘But we need to ask you some questions.’
    Ellen walked over to a cabinet, pulled down eight plastic tumblers and set them on the counter. The tumblers came with spill-proof caps and she began to speak as she removed them. Her movements were quick and precise, a counter to her weary gray eyes and the smudged pouches beneath them. ‘I gotta keep workin’,’ she explained. ‘You got questions, fire away.’
    â€˜We understand you told Sgt Murrano that your husband was released from prison yesterday.’
    â€˜Yeah, from Attica.’
    â€˜Did you pick him up?’
    â€˜Does it look like I have time to drive upstate?’
    â€˜So you didn’t pick him up?’
    Ellen Lodge paused long enough to wipe her hands on her apron. When she spoke again, her tone was a little softer. ‘I’m a cop’s wife,’ she told us, ‘and I know where you’re goin’ with this. So, let’s just cut to the chase. I didn’t love my husband. I admit it. The only reason I didn’t divorce him was because I couldn’t afford a lawyer.’
    â€˜Mrs Lodge, I only asked . . .’
    She threw up her hands. ‘Alright, already. I don’t know how Dave got here. The bus, probably, or a