Storm Warning

by Michele Hauf

  One man’s definition of dire could very well be another man’s idea of a challenge. It wasn’t dire. She’d survived. Had the attacker intended to kill her? Rubbing her neck where his hands had clasped without mercy, she nodded. He would not have released pressure until she’d ceased breathing. But the police chief had arrived—the American expression was, in the nick of time.

  So, not quite dire, but getting there.

  Forgoing a message, she almost set down the phone, but then she remembered she’d told Jason she’d check in with him.

  She dialed the number the police chief had written down for her. This call also went straight to message. She quickly relayed that she was fine and thanked him for his worry. Then without thinking, she added, “I owe you dinner at The Moose for your timely arrival to fight the bad guy. See you soon.”

  Dinner? Where had that come from?

  She told herself that it made sense to befriend the chief of police—after all, she was alone here. It couldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes watching out on her behalf, even if those eyes belonged to the most handsome man she’d seen in years.

  “I’m just being practical,” she said to the empty room.

  Hanging up and tossing the phone onto the couch, she added, “Netflix and chill, indeed.”

  Wandering into the living room, she picked up a stray paper she’d not noticed earlier when cleaning up the mess from the struggle. It had slid partially under the couch. It was the beginning of her pros and cons list. One con read: no love life. Because working for an international police organization did tend to put a damper on relationships. Certainly, it was much easier when working in the tech department as opposed to having to go out in the field and never knowing where the job might take her. But still, it wasn’t a job she could talk about with civilians. And that made getting close in a relationship difficult.

  She set the paper on the desk, and as she did, the lights flickered but did not go out. She suspected the electrical wiring for this old cabin was doing the best it could, given the harsh weather conditions. The rental owners had left instructions on how to use the generator, which sat outside hugging the east wall. As well, candles were in abundance, tucked in drawers, on windowsills, and placed in a box on the fireplace mantel.

  Taking the lighter from the hearth, she lit the three fat candles fit into a birch log on the rustic wood coffee table. The ambience was nice, but the flickering flames didn’t erase her lingering unease.

  She rubbed her palms up and down her arms. She wasn’t afraid. Not a damsel. But the question was: Was she safe here? Had someone found her because of what was in her head? What was in her head? She’d read a document on the computer. It had only showed up on the screen for ten minutes, and then it had disappeared. She had it all stored in her brain. And someone—her boss—had suspected what she’d seen could be dangerous.

  The attack hadn’t been random—someone seeking an easy victim in a desolate cabin far from town. He’d known her name. And in further proof, as the officers were dragging him out to the waiting vehicle, the attacker had said something about coming back for her.

  An impossible task if he was in jail. But had he acted alone?

  It wasn’t uncommon for Interpol agents to go dark, especially when they were deep undercover. She wasn’t exactly deep undercover, but Jacques had been adamant about keeping her off the grid. She may not have been out on assignment, but the extensive information lodged in her head made her dangerous, whether she liked it or not. She’d always trusted Jacques before. She’d continue to trust him now.

  “Another week,” she muttered. “That’s all I’ll give him before I reassess and change tactics.”

  * * *

  “YOU LISTEN TO your messages?” Marjorie asked as she popped her head into Jason’s office to say goodbye for the evening.

  Jason had left Ryan Bay below to interrogate the prisoner, while he was still on his way out to question the other women who had been with Yvette Pearson on Saturday night at The Moose. He hadn’t even glanced to his phone yet.

  “Will do,” he absently replied to Marjorie, his focus on the computer screen. James Smith did not have any known relatives listed.

  “Uh-huh.” Not convinced at all. “How’s the prisoner?”

  “Think he’s from Texas. But we can’t have a decent conversation with him that isn’t three-quarters expletives.”

  “How’s Ryan doing with him?”

  “Guy’s lackadaisical. He feels like one of those mosquitoes that a guy always has to brush away, but the bug never gets too close to bite.”

  “Annoying?” Marjorie asked.

  “That’s the word.”

  “You taking the night shift to keep an eye on him?”

  “No, Alex has the night shift. I’ll come in early to relieve him. Unless the storm arrives. Then I might have to go for a ride.”

  “I know you’re excited for the fresh snow.” Marjorie chuckled. “You need to start racing, Cash.”

  “I would love to, but can’t afford to take time off now. This is a big case.”

  “That it is. And I trust you’ll handle it well.”

  “You’ve never seen what I can do with homicide. How can you be so sure, Marjorie?”

  “Because you’re smart and not about to take crap from anyone. Especially a man behind bars who may have murdered an innocent woman.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Yes, well, I see how you sometimes doubt yourself, Chief Cash.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that statement.

  “You put yourself out there like the got-it-all-together, cocky police chief. And that’s well and fine. You do have it all together. More than most of us do. But I know you were hurt by something right before you came here.”

  He’d never told Marjorie everything about his reason for taking the job at the station, only that he had come fresh from the CIA.

  “You’re doing a good job, Cash,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  He nodded, finding it hard to summon a response. He tried his best with what he’d been given. And now he’d been handed a homicide investigation. How he handled this would prove to all watching him that he was capable and trustworthy.

  He winked at her. “See you tomorrow, Marjorie,” Jason said. “Tell Hank hey from me.”

  She waved and closed his office door.

  Jason returned his attention to the police database. Along with the fingerprints, he entered a description, possible alias of James Smith, nationality and crime. Smith was not his real name. Well, it could be, but a search for “James Smith” brought up far too many hits, none remotely similar in looks to the man sitting below. And none matched the Duluth address from the license, which meant the owner of the license might never have committed a crime and had reason to be booked and have his fingerprints on record.

  And that meant that whoever sat in the cell below had stolen the license and the vehicle.

  Jason sat back in his chair and flicked the plastic driver’s license Alex had taken from the man’s wallet. It was easy enough to fake a license, but to take the time to coordinate that match with vehicle registration? Had to be stolen. By force?

  Tugging open his top drawer, he pulled out a magnifying glass and studied the microprint on the license. The virtual image of the state bird—the loon—appeared to float and then sink on the card’s surface as he viewed it from different angles. A rub over the surface felt like all the other licenses he’d held over the years. The card was not flimsy, either. The photo showed a nondescript man in his midthirties with brown hair and eyes who wore a green collared polo shirt. He looked like the man in the cell below, but—well, hell, anything was possible.

  The SUV hadn’t been listed as stolen when he’d run the check earlier. But if the original owner had been harmed in some way—or even murdered—
the car may not yet have been reported stolen.

  He picked up the phone and then called out to Marjorie, “You still here?’’

  “What do you need?”

  Jason smiled. It always took her a bit to gather her things, and shut down the computer, and do a bit of dusting before she felt able to leave the office. “Will you patch me in to the Duluth desk?”

  When the call was transferred, he gave the officer the VIN and the license info. There were no reports of theft.

  “Will you drive out and check on James Smith?” Jason asked the officer. “I’ve got a perp here with his license and his vehicle, but I don’t think he is who he wants us to believe.”

  “Will do. Give me an hour.”

  “Thanks.” Jason hung up.

  Time to head for Lisa Powell’s place. He’d wanted to go sooner, but one of the drawbacks of being on a police force of two was that he had to do almost all of the work himself, from questioning to data search to writing reports. And Bay wasn’t as helpful as he needed him to be. Fortunately, Powell lived down the block from him with her husband and a couple of kids. She had to know that Yvette Pearson was dead, but just in case, he’d proceed carefully. Being a Sunday, the whole family would be home. This was not going to be easy, but he did enjoy the interrogative procedure and modulating it for a nonaggressive subject.

  Pulling out his phone, he spied the voice mail waiting for him. From Yvette. He hadn’t forgotten about asking her to check in with him. She reported she was fine and...

  “Dinner?” Jason nodded appreciatively. “Perfect opportunity to figure out who the hell Yvette LaSalle is.”

  Because in a short time, there had been a murder and then an attack on another woman. Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

  Chapter Eight

  Both Lisa Powell and Hannah Lindsey had been upset to hear about Yvette Pearson’s death. Both had known her from Blaine High School, where they’d graduated three years earlier. They, along with Hannah’s mother, had been celebrating Lisa’s birthday and had far too much to drink. Lisa had been inconsolable, so Jason had left her to her husband. Hannah had been in tears as well, but she’d said that Yvette had left The Moose to head back to the Snow Lake motel where she was staying. When he’d asked why they’d let their drunk friend drive, Hannah had broken out in a bawling fit.

  Neither had mentioned a strange man watching them while they’d been partying in the back of The Moose. But would they even remember if they’d been that wasted? Yvette Pearson had gotten a ride to The Moose from Lisa, and yet no one in the Powell family had noticed the maroon Monte Carlo—Yvette’s car—still parked out behind their garage in the alleyway until Jason had arrived. Yvette hadn’t made the short four-block walk from The Moose to her car. Smith—if he were indeed the murderer—had to have offered her a ride. Very possibly, he’d ended her life somewhere in town.

  That would have been an aggressive move on Smith’s part. Not taking her to a private place to do the deed. It indicated he’d simply wanted her dead, and quickly. And he hadn’t driven far to dispose of the body. Another indication of a rushed job.

  Had he known Yvette Pearson? Had anger over something pushed him to take her life? Had she known him from Blaine? Did they work together? They might have known one another and he followed her here and waited until she was alone so he could strike. A crime of passion.

  Except that those sorts of crimes were messier, more involved, and didn’t involve the perpetrator going after yet another woman with the same name.

  Unless, of course, an Yvette had hurt him in some way and he was taking out his anger on any random Yvette he stumbled upon?

  Very possible. And the two women did bear a resemblance, both young and beautiful with long dark hair.

  Now that Jason had spoken to the friends, he could go back to the office and, along with Bay, figure out a new interrogation strategy. Pearson’s family would need to be interviewed, as well as those she worked with.

  But really? If Elaine’s final report showed Smith’s DNA taken from under Pearson’s fingernails, then the interrogation wasn’t necessary. And the suspect had yet to ask for a lawyer. A good time stall on Jason’s part.

  He’d had the Monte Carlo towed to the station so Alex could give it a thorough once-over. And Marjorie would type up his audio notes from the interviews with the women in the morning.

  Before it got too late, now was a good time to check in on Yvette. And maybe delve deeper into what the hell was happening in Frost Falls.

  * * *

  “WHY DO I suspect ulterior motives?” Yvette asked as he stepped inside the cabin.

  “Just a routine check to ensure you’re safe.” Jason had handed her a heat-safe sack of food from The Moose. She had suggested dinner. “The meat loaf might need warming,” he offered. “It’s my favorite.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve had loaf of meat before,” Yvette teased.

  After he’d peeled away all his outer gear layers, Jason settled before the table as Yvette dished up warm meat loaf, mashed potatoes and the soft, buttered dinner rolls The Moose’s owner made from scratch. Now this would hit the spot. She bustled about the kitchen while he attacked the meat loaf.

  She’d seemed distant since the attack, and instinctively, he wanted to allow her space. But professionally? He could dig for a few relevant clues while engaging in casual conversation.

  “I’m surprised a woman who seems prickly about our winter chose to vacation in Minnesota.”

  Yvette sat across the table from him and tore her bread roll in half. “The trip was a gift,” she said. But he knew, from her inability to meet his gaze, that she wasn’t being truthful. Not completely. “A friend of a friend knew the owner of this cabin. I thought I’d give it a try. And with the photography opportunities...like I’ve said.”

  “Fair enough.” Using a quarter of the roll, Jason sopped up the butter melted in the concave top of his mashed potatoes. “I thought you said you trust me, Yvette?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are you lying to me?”

  She pressed her fingers to her chest and gaped at him. Those blue eyes were hard to accuse, so he tried not to look into them for too long. But, man, what about those lush lashes? A guy could get caught in them and never wish to escape.

  “You would never in a million years choose to vacation here,” he said. “Or maybe it started out as a spur-of-the-moment trip, but I sense things have changed for you. You know why that man was after you, don’t you?”

  “I honestly don’t. Swear to you that I don’t. You can even give me a lie detector test if you need to.” She bowed her head and poked at the mashed potatoes.

  That was an odd defense. Bringing up the lie detector suggestion was something only those who were deeply worried being caught out with their lies would suggest. Was she shaking? Sure, there was a draft sitting here by the window, but he sensed she was not comfortable. And it wasn’t because this could be misconstrued as a first date. It wasn’t. But he sensed a little of that “get to know you but I’m nervous” vibe about her.

  “Can you give me the name of the friend of a friend who suggested you vacation here?” he asked.

  Now she looked at him straight on. And he didn’t sense any shyness in that gaze. “You’re investigating me now?”

  “No, just trying to gather as many useful details as I can. You’re a stranger to our town, and you’ve been targeted. I need to put together possible connections.”

  “I don’t have the friend’s name. I took the offer as a means to fill out my photography portfolio. I’ve always wanted to turn nature photography into a career. And I’ve never taken snowy shots. It was an opportunity, so I grabbed it.”

  Jason sat back. “Fine. But if I look you up in the international database, what will I learn?”

  She shrugged. “That I live in Lyon, France. I have a job, r
ent an apartment, drive a Mini Cooper and—what else do those things reveal?—I’ve no police record. I’ve been hired for a few nature photography assignments for small publications over the last year.”

  “Kind of vague.”

  “Chief Cash, I’m not the criminal here. And I’m a bit offended that you’re treating me like one.”

  “I’m offended that you don’t want to help my investigation. Anyone with nothing to hide should be happy to help. The man could have killed you, Yvette.”

  “I know that.” She took a sip of water and closed her eyes, looking aside.

  Had he pushed too hard? Admittedly, Jason had never ranked high on the compassion stuff. Comforting victims after a crime was always a challenge for him.

  Jason placed a hand over hers, and she flinched but then settled and allowed him to keep his hand there. “I’ve not had a case like this in...” She didn’t need to know he was desperate to prove himself. “I’ve never had a homicide. Small town, you know? I just want to do things right. But if I’ve offended you, I’m sorry. It’s hard for me to keep business separate from other things in this situation.”

  “Other things?” She lifted a brow.

  Hell, he’d gone and said something he probably shouldn’t have. And yet, if he couldn’t be honest with her, then she had no reason to reciprocate. “I like you, Yvette. I feel protective toward you, and not just because it’s my job to keep you safe.”

  Her nervous smile was too brief. “I like you, too, Jason Cash. I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

  “Doesn’t mean things can’t go how we want them to.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Now the smile returned, more confident.

  “But I promise you,” he said, making a point of meeting her gaze, “if I ever want you to have pie, it will be delivered in person, and shared.”

  “Makes sense. Now. It was a stupid thing to open that door. I should have been more suspicious.”