Chilling Effect (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 2)

by Melissa F. Miller

  In any case, he didn’t need to worry about her getting adventurous out here on her own—she couldn’t shake the image of the dead man slumped in his chair just on the other side of the door.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “Love you, too.”

  She ended the call and texted the address with trembling hands.

  The hawk circled again. It called. Its cry chilled her—it sounded like an infant in distress. Another call, and a second bird joined it in the dusky sky.

  She stowed her phone without calling Sid or the police and set off across the narrow street toward the field on a hunch.

  The hawks perched on two high branches and peered down at something in the far corner of the field.

  It’s probably a dead rabbit, she tried to convince herself as she tromped through the long grass, sage, and juniper bushes.

  The predators continued their calling, louder and more insistent now.

  What was left of the sun was dipping behind a distant rock formation.

  She wrapped her arms around her torso and bent her head against the wind.

  As she reached the spot that the hawks were watching, she saw what was causing their excitement and sucked in her breath. She was right, it was a dead rabbit. But it wasn’t just a dead rabbit.

  An adult black-tailed jackrabbit, its long thin ears spread against the earth like two antennae, stared up at the sky, a single bullet hole between its eyes.

  Someone had been practicing.

  The tribal police were unimpressed. Or, at least, the baby-faced Ahmik Hunt, the first officer to respond to her call, was unimpressed.

  “Ma’am, we’re overrun with rabbits. Everybody hunts them, although it is unusual to see one left for dead like that, to be sure,” he said.

  Aroostine nodded. Most Native Americans frowned on hunting for sport, and if someone on the reservation killed a rabbit, he would likely eat the meat and put the skin and fur to other practical uses. But this guy seemed to be missing the larger point. She cocked her head and searched his expression, trying to determine if he was being sincere.

  “This rabbit wasn’t hunted. It was executed. Shot in the forehead, exactly like Isaac Palmer,” she explained in the most patient tone she could muster.

  “Now, let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ll have to leave it to the ballistics experts to determine whether that’s true.”

  “You don’t find it curious that there’s a dead rabbit less than fifty yards from Mr. Palmer’s corpse?”

  He shrugged. “Tell me again why you were in Mr. Palmer’s house?”

  She flushed and tried to ignore the heat in her cheeks. She’d called Sid first, before calling the locals, and he’d been adamant that she not mention the investigation.

  “Don’t lie, Higgins, but obfuscate your pants off if you have to” was his exact quote. Unfortunately for her, she was a terrible liar and, she imagined, an equally bad obfuscater.

  “Ah, I’m out here on vacation from back East. So I called Isaac to see if he wanted to get together for a visit while I’m here.”

  All true.

  “You two involved?”

  “You mean romantically? No, nothing like that. My husband was taking a tour of some breweries. I don’t drink, so it seemed like a good time to see Isaac.”

  The cop seemed to age before her eyes as he squinted at her, sizing her up. She smiled as convincingly as she could.

  “You’re not Chinook, are you?”

  She shook her head. “Lenape,” she confirmed.

  “How did you say you know Isaac?”

  She stared toward the front door of the house, where the officer’s colleagues were struggling through the front door under the weight of a black body bag.

  Now what?

  She turned back to Officer Hunt with a pained expression.

  “I’m sorry? What did you say?” she asked to buy time.

  It was his turn to blush.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ms. Higgins. I’m sure it must have been quite a shock to find Isaac like that.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. She was about to break the silence by asking whether there were a lot of execution-style murders on the reservation when Joe sped up in the rental Jeep and screeched to a stop when he saw her.

  The cop’s right hand danced toward his service weapon.

  “It’s my husband,” she hurried to explain.

  His fingers relaxed.

  Joe ran around the vehicle and caught her in a tight hug.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Despite her assurance, he held her at arm’s length and examined her, as if he might find signs of injury.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine—now that you’re here.” She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Officer Hunt coughed awkwardly.

  “I’ll give you folks some privacy. Ms. Higgins, please make sure you give your contact information to someone before you leave the scene.”

  She nodded. He touched his fingers to the brim of his cap and walked over to join the cluster of uniforms gathered around Palmer’s front door.

  She relaxed, sagging against Joe’s chest.

  “I’m so glad he’s gone,” she whispered.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Sid doesn’t want me to share any details of the investigation with the locals. So I was sort of sidestepping a lot of that guy’s questions. And you know how I am with lying.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, Joe wouldn’t pass up a chance to tease her about her terrible poker face. But instead of ribbing her, he frowned and stared down at her.

  “I don’t like the sound of that. Why wouldn’t the Justice Department cooperate with the tribal police?”

  She looked up into his guileless blue eyes and crafted a response that wouldn’t disillusion him too much.

  “I’m not sure Sid thinks these guys are equipped to deal with issues related to a federal embezzlement case, babe.”

  He stiffened and said, “Why? Because they don’t wear two-thousand-dollar suits?”

  Leave it to Joe to identify with a bunch of tribal police. His distrust of what he considered city slickers had only snowballed since she’d joined the Department of Justice.

  “I’m sure that’s not it. Can we drop this? I still can’t believe he’s dead. I talked to him just a couple hours ago.”

  She watched his indignation morph—first into sadness for the dead stranger and then into a spark of fear for her safety.

  “You don’t think he was killed because he was going to talk to you?”

  She shrugged as if to say she had no idea. But that was exactly what she thought.

  And Sid thought so, too. The last thing he’d said to her had been “Try to stick around and see what the locals turn up. But for the love of all that’s holy, Higgins—be careful.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  After the county coroner’s van pulled out and bumped along the road with Isaac’s corpse secure in the back, Officer Hunt gestured for an older man to follow him and broke free of the various official types milling around the crime scene. They headed across the street to the fallen log where Aroostine and Joe had finally parked themselves, waiting for someone to tell them they were free to leave.

  Aroostine rose to her feet and dusted off her pants as they approached. Joe stood up beside her and followed suit.

  “Ms. Higgins, Mr. Higgins—” the police began.

  “It’s Jackman, actually. Joe Jackman.”

  Joe stuck out his hand. Officer Hunt shook it and then resumed his introductions.

  “Right. This is Chief Johnson.”

  “I appreciate your patience. I know you’ve been cooling your heels for a while now,” Chief Johnson said. He had the tanned face of an outdoorsman and the tired eyes of a bureaucrat.

  “It’s okay. You’ve got a murder to investi
gate,” she said.

  He flashed her a tight smile.

  “Well, currently, it’s a death. It hasn’t been ruled a homicide just yet,” he cautioned.

  She felt her eyes widen. She stole a sideways glance at Joe. His face mirrored her bewilderment.

  “Uh, Aroostine said the guy had been shot between the eyes at close range. I don’t think he died of natural causes,” Joe countered.

  Officer Hunt jumped in. “I think we’re all in agreement that Mr. Palmer died as a result of a gunshot wound. The chief’s just saying we need to proceed in an orderly fashion.”

  “Sure. Understood. Did you tell the chief about the rabbit?”

  Aroostine had watched the various personnel come and go from the scene, traipsing through Palmer’s house with bags of equipment, cameras, and finally the body bag. At no point did anyone cross the road to examine the jackrabbit that had been shot in much the same way as the late Isaac Palmer.

  Officer Hunt scrunched up his face as if he were trying, through superhuman effort, not to roll his eyes.

  Chief Johnson turned to the younger man with a questioning look.

  “Rabbit?”

  “Uh, right. Ms. Higgins noticed some hawks showing an interest in the field back there. She went over to investigate and found a dead rabbit.” He waved his hand in the general vicinity of the field.

  “I see,” the chief said.

  Before he could launch into an explanation about the circle of life, she said, “It’s not just a dead rabbit. It’s a rabbit that was shot point-blank between the eyes, at close range, using a small-caliber weapon. Ring any bells?”

  The chief’s substantial eyebrows wriggled across his forehead like gray caterpillars.

  “You think Palmer’s shooter did the rabbit, too?”

  “Well, it didn’t commit suicide, chief.” She managed to keep her disdain out of her voice, but just barely. This guy was a joke.

  “Good point. Hunt, go tell one of the forensic dweebs to check out the rabbit before the hawks turn it into dinner, eh?”

  Officer Hunt huffed off.

  The chief squinted at Aroostine.

  “What kind of lawyer did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t. But I’m the kind of lawyer who’s on a romantic getaway with her husband. Why?”

  He looked from Aroostine to Joe and then back at her. “That was some detailed knowledge of ballistics for a civilian.”

  He waited.

  Maybe he wasn’t such a joke after all. She glanced at Joe, but he gave her an innocent look as if to say, “you got yourself into it, you can get out of it.”

  “Well, I have prosecuted some crimes back home. And I watch CSI, of course.” She smiled, willing him to laugh. Better to let him think she was ditz than to reveal that Isaac Palmer may have been killed because he was cooperating with a federal investigation of crimes committed on the chief’s turf.

  The short burst that came exploding from his throat might have been a chuckle, but it was devoid of actual humor.

  “Let me assure you, there’s nothing quite so exciting as an episode of CSI happening here, ma’am. This is a small, if sprawling, community. We’re just a big extended family. This kind of violence is rare. And I’m sure there’s an explanation.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out two card stock tickets. “Now, we thank you for your good citizenship. And on behalf of the police force, we’d like to invite you to head up to the casino for dinner—our treat. The steak house is one of the best in the state.”

  He extended the tickets. She hesitated. Was the chief of police trying to buy her off with a steak dinner? Or was this just typical resort-style public relations? After all, it wouldn’t do for a tourist’s only exposure to the reservation to be stumbling on a murder scene.

  Beside her, Joe shrugged. She knew he was thinking that they’d missed their reservation and they had to eat somewhere. As if to punctuate the point, his stomach growled loudly.

  “Okay, I guess. Um, thank you.” She plucked the tickets from the police chief’s hand.

  Joe watched his wife devour her petit filet as if she hadn’t eaten in a week.

  “Maybe you should have gone for the New York strip,” he observed.

  She paused and swallowed then reached for her water glass before answering. “Don’t judge.”

  He smiled and sipped his wine.

  “I’m not. I’m just kind of surprised you have an appetite—much less one for rare meat—after what happened today.”

  She rested her fork and knife on the plate and leaned forward, resting her arms on the black linen tablecloth.

  “I know, right? I think I burned a lot of nervous energy or something. I’m famished. But every time I think of that poor man . . .” She trailed off. Her dark eyes threatened to turn liquid.

  Crap. He wasn’t trying to make her cry.

  “Hey, hey. Don’t think about that. You need to eat. I was just teasing you.” He kept his tone light and looked around the bustling restaurant.

  Between the clank of glasses, the chatter of diners, and the din of ringing machines, shouts of despair, and whoops of joy that drifted up from the casino floor below, no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to them or their conversation.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. But the fork and knife stayed on the plate. She was quiet for a moment, then she gave him a searching look. “Don’t you think it’s weird that none of Palmer’s neighbors came by or even popped a head out to see what all the commotion was?”

  Yes, he did. But there was no way he was going to admit that and wind her up. He knew her too well. The last thing he wanted to do was increase her interest in the murder. They needed to eat their steak, tip their waitress, and get off the freaking reservation before she got sucked into the case. This was their vacation, not an opportunity for her to prove her mettle to that jerk Slater.

  She was staring into his eyes, expectantly waiting for an answer.

  He scratched the side of his neck and jammed a large forkful of potatoes into his mouth to buy some time.

  “Mmm . . . maybe a little? But Chief Johnson’s glad-handing aside, you don’t know what kind of community this is. Not every place is as neighborly as Walnut Bottom, Pennsylvania, Roo. When you were staying in DC, do you think your neighbors would have stuck their noses into a criminal investigation?”

  She twisted her mouth into an aggravated little bow. “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, nobody’s from DC. Virtually everyone’s a transplant from somewhere else. But nobody lives on a reservation unless they were born there. This place ought to be close-knit. Even if Isaac Palmer’s neighbors hated his guts and are having a party right now, they should have been snooping around the scene to see what was going on. That’s just the way it works.”

  He bit down on his lower lip to keep from reminding her that she wasn’t exactly the expert on Native American reservations she was pretending to be. For one thing, her tribe didn’t even have an officially recognized reservation back home—just a sad little cluster of falling-down shacks. For another, she’d left that life behind when she was just a kid. She’d grown up in a white-bread community no different from him. Her adoptive parents probably would have gone out and offered the investigating police officer lemonade if a crime had happened in her neighborhood, but the crime in question would more likely have been a case of a house being egged or some kids stealing a case of beer out of a neighbor’s garage than an execution-style murder. But he figured saying as much would hardly be prudent. And prudence and marriage were two great tastes together.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Nothing. I don’t know anything about this place. And neither do you. What I do know is there’s chocolate decadence cake on the menu. Let’s get some dessert and get back to our own hotel, get back to the point of this trip. What do you say?”

  She shook her head and smiled. Chocolate cake was her weakness—shoot, it was more like her
Kryptonite.

  “I’m onto you, Joe Jackman.”

  “Is that a promise? Because I’d sure like to have you on me . . .” He trailed off.

  A faint blush crept over her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.

  “We’ll see. But cake first.”

  He raised his glass to that.

  Joe headed to the parking garage to fetch the Jeep while Aroostine used the ladies’ room. After wending her way through the casino floor and getting turned around multiple times, she finally managed to find the cashier’s cage and then found a route to the exit and the valet stand from there.

  She was sober and had not been gambling; and yet, her brief travels through the casino had left her feeling overstimulated, dazed, and wrung out. Or it could be the whole finding-a-dead-body part. Right.

  She tripped out into the foyer and blinked into the obnoxiously bright fluorescent light.

  “Can I get your car?” the valet asked. His white smile was nearly as blinding as the lights.

  “Oh, no, thanks. We self-parked.”

  She spotted a bench near the bushes lining the entryway. She plopped down and eased her feet out of her dress pumps, flexed her toes, and was jamming them back inside when a little voice squeaked, “What’s the password?”

  She started and scanned her immediate surroundings. Saw no one. She must have been tireder than she realized if she was having auditory hallucinations.

  “Password,” the childlike voice demanded again.

  It was coming from the fragrant, flowering bushes behind her. She leaned over the back of the bench and peered down into the shrubbery.

  A glitter-dusted face stared up at her. Big brown eyes, pinchable cheeks, and a tangle of wild dark hair, crowned with a wreath of flowers and ribbon completed the picture. Aroostine took in the fairy wings strapped to the girl’s back and the wand she waved regally in her right hand.