Excerpt from Dead of Winter by P.J. Parrish, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"You have to do the app here. Chief wants to make sure you can read and write," the young officer said.

Louis nodded, reaching for his pen. "Have you had many applicants?"

"A few but you're the last. Chief says deadline is five, he means five."

Louis glanced back at the empty chairs, debating whether to take a seat. His eye was drawn to a photograph on the wall. The photograph had a small black ribbon across the top left hand corner. The handsome black officer in the photo was named Thomas Pryce. The plate beneath the photo said: In Memorium, June 12, 1952-December 1, 1984. Two weeks ago.

Louis turned back to see Dale McGuire staring at him.

"Is there something wrong?" Louis asked.

Dale smiled. "No, nothing. Would you like a cookie?"

Louis smiled and nodded. Dale pulled off the Saran wrap and Louis took a red Christmas tree. He munched on it as he filled out the application.

"L-17 to Central. We’re back in service."

The sound of the officer’s voice on the radio drew Louis’s attention to the dispatch desk in the corner. The dispatcher was a walrus of a woman with a jet-black bouffant and Fifties-style cat-eye glasses. With a sigh, she lowered her paperback and keyed her microphone.

"Ten-4, seventeen. I have a message for you. Your wife requests you stop and pick up egg nog on the way home."

A voice came back, slightly chagrined. "Ten-4, Central."

More calls trickled in, and Louis listened as he filled out the application. A lost dog. An officer stating he was checking on an elderly woman who lived alone. Another requesting jumper cables for a stranded motorist. It was unreal. All his adult life, he had set his sights on Detroit and the challenge of working for a big city department with plenty of action. But here he was. What the hell did this town even need cops for?

Still, there was something about this place. Something in the air, something...sweet and clean, more than just pine and gingerbread. He had felt it the moment he drove into town. He remembered something Frances Lawrence, his foster mother, once said, something about people having places on earth where their souls felt comfortable, places where, as soon as you set foot in them, you felt at home. He had never felt that special pull to any one place.

"You know," Dale said, interrupting his thoughts, "The chief hasn't found anyone he liked yet. When you get done with that, he'll want to see you."

See him? Now?

"He’s anxious to fill the job. Doesn’t like working short-handed," Dale added.

Louis glanced at the chief’s closed door. He saw his cold, ugly apartment back in Detroit and felt the sting of lonely and boring nights.

God, he wanted this job. He wanted it bad.


"The chief will see you now."

Louis looked at his watch. He had been waiting for two hours. He had read every flyer and wanted poster on the bulletin board and thumbed through the four copies of old National Geographics three times. He stood up, smoothing his jacket.

Dale led him to the chief’s door and knocked. They waited until a commanding voice summoned them in.

There was no one in the office. Louis was wondering where the chief was when he heard the flush of a toilet from behind a closed door to his right. Taking a deep breath to relax, he looked around.

He stood on a blood-red carpet, vacuum tracks still visible around the perimeter. The walls were covered with framed photographs, certificates, plaques and newspaper clippings. On the credenza below them sat a handsome chess set. Louis’s eyes were drawn to two swords mounted over the credenza. One was gleaming steel, with gold cording. The other was old, foreign looking. Louis stared at it. Good God, was it a Samurai sword?

Copyright P.J. Parrish 2001. All rights reserved. Reprinted with the permission of the author, PJ Parrish