Snow Blind by P.J. Tracy Page A

drill.”
    â€œI’m sure you do, but look it over anyhow. If you have any questions, now’s the time to ask.”
    â€œWhen can I talk to my wife?”
    Doyle stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    â€œShe’s my wife.”
    â€œShe divorced you two years ago. You got the papers. You get within a hundred yards of her, you’ll be back inside before you can take a breath.”
    Weinbeck tried for a friendly smile. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? Nobody’ll tell me where she is. Besides, I just want to talk to her. A phone call is all I’m asking. They told me you’d have the number.”
    â€œIt’s not going to happen, Weinbeck, and you know it’s not going to happen. You’ve been through this before. You want to just throw in the towel now and head straight back to Stillwater, save us all some trouble?”
    Kurt Weinbeck’s manner changed instantly, and so did his countenance, softening into a practiced expression of deference and obedience. “No, sir. I certainly don’t. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I just worry about her. I’d like to know that she’s doing okay, that’s all.”
    Doyle studied the man’s face for a long moment. Man, he hated these guys, hated the way they thought they could play you with a smile and a pretense of acquiescence, as if you were some kind of idiot. They were all self-serving, deceptive bastards. He really believed that. And yet somewhere beneath his hard-won shell of cynicism, a stupid, irritating flicker of idealism still lingered. He couldn’t get rid of it, which was probably why he was still in this job after all the years of disappointment. His head knew better, but his heart still wanted to believe that the worst scumbag was still a human being, that if the right person offered a little charity at just the right time, he could find his way back. And what would it cost him? Just a single sentence, a few words of reassurance.
    â€œI talked to your wife myself. She’s doing just fine.”
    This time Weinbeck’s smile was genuine, and it made Doyle feel better about himself than he had in months.
    â€œThank you, sir. It means a lot to hear that. Are we finished here?”
    â€œTen more minutes.”
    â€œCan I get something to drink? A Coke or something? I saw a vending machine down the hall.”
    Doyle pushed a few forms across the desk. “I’ll get it. Start signing wherever you see a flag. The sooner you finish, the sooner you’re out of here.” He picked up Weinbeck’s file to take it with him, pausing as he walked around the desk to make sure Weinbeck was signing in the right place. Some of these guys were so dumb that, red flag or not, they couldn’t figure out where to put their name.
    He saw the blade as it slashed up toward him, but not soon enough.

C HAPTER 7
    M IDAFTERNOON ON A S ATURDAY , AND C ITY H ALL was buzzing like a blown-out amplifier. The entrance was jammed with what looked like every reporter and camera operator in the state, and as usual, where the cameras went, the politicians followed.
    As he and Gino carved a “no comment” path through the din of shouted questions that followed their entrance, Magozzi recognized no less than three city council members, several legislators, p.r. people from the mayor’s office, and bizarrely, the media spokesman for the Department of Transportation, though God knew what he was doing here. Probably looking for an increase in the snow-removal budget so they could get rid of all the white stuff someone was hiding bodies in.
    Oddly enough, Homicide was the only relatively quiet place in the whole building. They heard Gloria’s excessively polite phone voice coming from the other side of the door that divided the reception area from the office proper, and Magozzi didn’t know which was more disturbing: that Gloria had come in on a Saturday, or