Chilling Effect (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 2)

by Melissa F. Miller

Joe was tempted to roll his eyes at the hokey shaman talk, but judging by Aroostine’s grave expression and wide eyes, she was taking it seriously. She’d mentioned her spirit animal to him a few times, and she claimed it had helped her find him last year when he’d been kidnapped, but she generally avoided talking about anything mystical or native with him. Now, listening to her conversation with Boom, he felt extraneous, almost invisible. Outside.

  “I will,” Aroostine promised the old man.

  Boom gave a somber little nod of the head and then set his tea on the side table.

  “I’m glad no one was hurt. I’ll leave you folks to get back to sleep. The sun won’t rise for a few more hours. You should rest.”

  Joe let Boom out and bolted the door, then joined Aroostine on the couch. She was staring at the wall. He didn’t know what to say, so he rubbed her shoulders. After several minutes, she leaned into him.

  “Let’s go back to bed. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep but maybe you can get some rest,” she whispered into his chest.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom like a child, the blanket trailing along the floor.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aroostine was sure she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. And she was half-certain she didn’t want to, not if it meant she might have another vision. But Joe insisted she try.

  “I don’t want to have another vision,” she finally whispered.

  He’d always put more stock into her visions than she had. In fact, she had kept the whole spirit animal guide thing a secret when they’d been dating and well into the first few years of their marriage. Because, by then, she couldn’t quite figure out how to say, “Honey, I’ve been keeping this secret from you.”

  But when she finally screwed up the courage to tell him, he hadn’t laughed or asked a bunch of ignorant questions. He’d just nodded, sat with the news for a while, and then asked one question: “Does it have a name?” And when she told him no, it was an unnamed beaver, he’d tilted his head and painted her with a look. “If it were my spirit guide, I’d at least name it.”

  Now he nodded, “I bet. But you have to sleep. Just relax, Roo. I’m right here.” He cradled her like a child and stroked her hair.

  After a moment or two, his reassuring words melted into a wordless song. He was humming something—a lullaby, maybe. His mouth brushed her ear. She closed her eyes.

  She didn’t know how long he’d soothed her like that, it could have been minutes or hours. She just knew that at some point he succeeded in lulling her to sleep. She knew this because now she was tucked under Joe’s right arm struggling to open her heavy eyelids in response to a hammering noise.

  Joe stirred beside her. He raised himself on one elbow and cocked his head to listen to the sound while she blinked herself awake, taking note of the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

  She’d slept past sunrise? Her body must have been utterly drained for her not to have risen with the first rays.

  She pushed herself upright, too. The pounding grew louder.

  “That’s the door,” she said.

  “I’ll get it.” He was already on his feet, pale and grim-faced.

  She bet he’d stayed awake all night to watch over her. That was the sort of thing Joe did.

  “Do you think it’s Boom again?”

  “It better not be. I mean, c’mon. Surely he has a telephone.” He stomped toward the front of the house.

  Aroostine raked her fingers through her tangled hair in an effort to achieve a semblance of presentability and then raced across the cold floor on tiptoes, following him to the door.

  He unlocked the door and yanked it, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

  Ruby Smith pushed her way past him and into the house. Her fists were clenched, tendons bulged in her neck, and her jaw jutted out.

  “Who’d you tell?” she shouted at Aroostine, leaning in and putting her face close to Aroostine’s.

  Aroostine took a reflexive half step back.

  “Whoa, hey. Who are you?” Joe demanded, moving to step between the two of them.

  “Hang on. This is Ruby Smith. Close the door, honey.” Aroostine spoke in the softest, calmest voice she could manage. A voice geared to soothing a wounded animal or calming a lost child. Miraculously, it seemed to also work on enraged cocktail waitresses—or, at least, it worked on the one who mattered.

  Joe shut the front door, and Ruby just sort of deflated. All the anger leaked out of her like air out of a balloon, and she sagged. Aroostine reached out a hand, ready to catch the woman if she fell. But she steadied herself and turned her face to Aroostine with fat tears shining in her eyes.

  “Who did you tell?” she asked again in a tight voice.

  Aroostine led her by the elbow to the couch and piloted her to a seated position. Then she lowered herself to the spot beside her and took both the woman’s hands in hers. They were ice cold. And shaking.

  “I didn’t tell anyone what you told me last night, Ruby. Only Joe, my husband. And he hasn’t said a word.” She cut her eyes toward Joe and gave him a meaningful look.

  He hurried over to join them, crouching in front of the distraught woman.

  “That’s right,” he said, giving his words the weight of a promise.

  Ruby hung her head. Tears fell to the floor.

  “What happened?” Aroostine asked.

  The woman cried silently for a long moment before she raised her head to answer. “Someone broke into my house.”

  Aroostine’s heart skipped.

  “When?”

  “I walked Lily to the bus stop this morning. I usually let her go herself. It’s just two streets away. But I figured better safe than sorry—what with Isaac and all. So I walked her up to the stop around seven o’clock and put her on the school bus. I didn’t come straight back. A few parents were gossiping about the murder, so I stuck around to see what they were saying—”

  “What are people saying?” Aroostine interrupted to ask.

  Ruby tossed her hair. It was an irritated gesture, as if Ruby couldn’t believe the stories that were flying around the reservation.

  “Mainly, folks are saying he had a drug problem and white dealers from the city killed him because he owed money. There’s no truth to that. None. I don’t know where that story’s coming from, but I kept my mouth shut.”

  Lee Buckmount.

  Joe’s eyes met Aroostine’s over Ruby’s head. He was thinking the same thing.

  She turned back to Ruby. “Okay, so what happened next?”

  Ruby exhaled shakily. “Well, I walked back home and stuck my key in the lock to open the door, but it was already unlocked. It swung open as soon as I touched it. It’s a piece of plywood crap, not like this one.” She jerked her head toward the solid oak door.

  “You’re sure you locked it?” Aroostine knew the question would set Ruby off, but she had to ask it.

  As anticipated, Ruby stiffened and her eyes blazed.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She spat out the words from between clenched teeth.

  “Does anyone else have a key?” Joe asked.

  Ruby leaned forward as if she were going to explode again but stopped herself.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice soft and uncertain.

  Aroostine arched a brow. She didn’t know?

  Ruby went on. “I didn’t give a key to anyone else—except Isaac.”

  The room felt cold suddenly.

  “So, anyone might have his key.” Joe finally put words to the chilling thought that they all shared.

  Ruby nodded wordlessly. Her hands began to shake again.

  “Okay,” Aroostine soothed. “We’ll worry about that in a minute. What happened when you opened the door?”

  “I was scared. I knew I locked it before I left. I thought maybe I shouldn’t go in—in case someone was in there. But I’d left my purse and phone on the counter. And I could see them from the doorway. The house w
as quiet, so I figured I’d just run in, grab my stuff, then leave and call the police.”

  “So that’s what you did?”

  “No. I forced myself inside and got my purse and phone, but then I ran back outside. I didn’t call the police.”

  “Why not?”

  Ruby dropped Aroostine’s hand and reached into the leather shoulder bag she’d dropped at her feet when she’d sunk into the love seat. She rifled through it with trembling hands and came out with a sheet of lined paper that had been ripped out of a notebook. She pushed it into Aroostine’s hands.

  “Because of this. It was on the counter next to my purse.”

  Someone had scrawled the words with a black marker:

  If you want your daughter to live, keep your whore mouth shut.

  Aroostine paced in a fast circuit around the bedroom listening to the Criminal Division’s recorded hold message exhorting her to report any suspicious behavior she happened on when she was out and about. Sid’s secretary came back on the line.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Polly.” She tamped down her irritation at being put on hold. She needed to stay on Polly’s good side.

  “Sorry, Aroostine. He’s finishing up a meeting. He asked if you wanted to hold another minute or two or if he should call you back?”

  She walked to the door and pushed it ajar. Joe was leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to Ruby, who was not in her line of sight. Judging by the big gestures he was making, he was continuing to reassure Ruby that they wouldn’t let anything happen to Lily.

  “I’ll wait,” she said into the phone.

  “Good. That’ll give me an excuse to buzz his office again in another minute to hurry him along. Poor Mitch Swope’s been in there for darn near an hour now. I don’t know what Sid’s raking him over the coals about, but I’m sure he’d welcome the interruption.”

  Aroostine nearly laughed despite her anxiety. Sid was a stern taskmaster. But all of the AUSAs who worked for him knew what they’d signed up for—and Mitch, more so than most, welcomed Sid’s probing analyses and (sometimes constructive) criticisms.

  “Okay, hon, I’m putting you back on hold now. Sorry about the PSA. I can’t turn it off.”

  “No worries, Polly. You better believe if I see something, I’ll say something.”

  They shared a chuckle at the dated slogan. And then the earnest prerecorded voice resumed its spiel, midword. Aroostine returned to her pacing and tuned out the voice.

  “Higgins.” Sid’s voice jolted her back to attention.

  “Hi, Sid.”

  “What’s the status?”

  “The status is this thing is spiraling out of control. Joe met some old guy in the woods who pointed the finger at the casino’s CFO. The CFO, a man named Lee Buckmount, is going around the reservation insinuating that Palmer was killed by drug dealers from the city, and a . . . casino employee says Palmer told her the embezzlement might be tied to some missing military drones. Are there military drones missing?!” She realized belatedly that she was shouting. “Sorry. On top of all of that, someone broke into my source’s home and left a message threatening her little girl. This is . . . I think you need to turn this over to the FBI, Sid.”

  He was silent for what seemed like a long time. When he spoke it was slowly, in a deliberate tone.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Higgins. Now, take a deep breath.” He paused. “Did you take a deep breath?”

  She inhaled then released her breath in a loud whoosh.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, let’s try this again. Where are you, back at your resort?”

  “No. We stayed on the reservation last night—it’s a long story.”

  “Well, what would you tell a witness, Higgins?”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “So start at the beginning. You found the body, called the local authorities, and then hung around to see how they responded, right?”

  “Right. Officer Hunt interviewed me. The only way to describe the interview is cursory. He was clearly just checking boxes.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I told him I found the corpse of a large, adult jackrabbit with a bullet hole through the center of its head, just like Isaac Palmer, in the field directly across from Palmer’s house. He blew it off.”

  Unflappable Sid momentarily lost his composure. “That’s valuable forensic evidence, for crying out loud! Tell me it’s not just lying in the grass decomposing. Do I need to send out a team from Eugene?”

  “Take it easy, Sid,” Aroostine said, relishing the turned tables. “I pointed it out to the police chief when he finally roused himself to come to the scene.”

  She waited while he mumbled a few of his favorite curses under his breath.

  “The police chief comped us dinner at the casino—”

  “Us?”

  “I called Joe to come meet me, Sid.”

  “I realize this is some sort of recapture-the-romance trip, but I trust you’re keeping your husband at arm’s length from the investigation.”

  She bit her lip and swallowed the response that came to mind. Instead she said, “Of course. As I was saying, we had dinner at the casino—in part, because it had been a long day and, surprisingly, I was hungry and in part, because I wanted to get a better sense of the place. That’s where the purported embezzlement is taking place, after all.”

  “And?”

  “And it seemed to be a well-run establishment. The parking lot was mostly full, the casino floor was bustling, and the food was passable.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The decor was sort of over-the-top with the clichéd Indian motif.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind.”

  “Oh, well, if you mean did I see anyone walk by with a big burlap sack marked ‘pilfered funds,’ the answer is no.”

  “Point taken. So what happened after dinner?”

  There was no way she was recounting the argument for Sid. She glossed over the reason for the stop along the side of the road and said, “Joe was taking a walk when he ran into a man on the tribe’s cultural board, a guy by the name of Cowslip—Matthew Cowslip, but he goes by Boom. He mentioned to Joe that he thought Buckmount had something to do with Palmer’s murder. He seemed to think the local authorities were unlikely to look into the issue with any real vigor.”

  Sid harrumphed in bitter agreement. Then he said, “He’s no doubt correct about that—especially if Buckmount is involved.”

  “What do we have on Buckmount?”

  Silence.

  “Sid?”

  “Not much. That’s part of the problem. These Indian—er, Native American—casinos are pretty much black boxes. They’re not subject to the same level of scrutiny and oversight as regular casinos. In fact, we have some concerns that organized crime is moving its focus away from Las Vegas and Atlantic City and trying to make inroads with the reservation casinos for that very reason.”

  “You think there’s a mob connection at White Springs?”

  “I don’t know, but according to our friends in the Bureau, that’s a good possibility.”

  “So Isaac’s death could be a professional hit.”

  “Could be.”

  An image of Lily flashed in her mind.

  “Well that’s a real problem, because there’s a seven-year-old girl in danger.”

  “Tell me about the girl.”

  “She lives next door to Palmer. Her mother’s a cocktail waitress at the casino. Mom claims Isaac had a crush on her and told her about the missing money to impress her.”

  “Great. Wonder who else he blabbed to?”

  “According to her, no one. She told him he was playing with fire and, apparently, scared him. That’s probably why he went dark on us and stopped cooperating.”

  “Hmm, maybe. He tell her anything else?”

  “Yeah, he told her he thought the missing money was somehow tied up with some drones
that disappeared from the testing facility on the reservation. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Missing drones? No. But I’ll poke around.” Sid’s tone was infuriatingly unconcerned.

  “Do more than poke around, Sid. If there’s even one unmanned military drone floating around out—”

  “Simmer down, White Springs is a civilian testing facility. The drones aren’t armed. They’re just annoying.”

  “You knew about the drone testing?” she asked incredulously.

  “What are you, some kind of Luddite? Drones, civilian drones, are big business. Especially in Oregon. There’ve got to be eighty private companies working on civilian drones out there—maybe more. But the programs are completely safe and walled off from weaponized drones, Higgins. Get a grip.”

  “Wrong. Apparently, through the magic of budget cuts, the Department of Defense decided to cost share with the Federal Aviation Authority. They may not practice detonations over White Springs, but they’re flying military drones out of the facility. And, apparently, some have gone missing.”

  After a long, heavy silence, Sid let loose a string of invective that made Aroostine’s ears burn. She could picture him, stomping around his office with his stupid wireless headset firmly in place, his face getting redder by the second. She waited.

  “That’s not . . . are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. It’s an unsubstantiated rumor. But, someone broke into the cocktail waitress’s house this morning and left a message threatening her daughter if she doesn’t keep her mouth shut. So, whether it’s true or not, someone’s worried about the word getting around.”

  “Crap.”

  “Exactly. I need protection for the mom and girl, Sid. And I need someone to look into Buckmount, fast. I think it’s time to call in the guys with the guns. This isn’t a lawyer problem at this point.”

  Sid exhaled. “See, here’s the thing . . .” he trailed off.

  “Oh, good, there’s a thing.”

  “It’s politically delicate. The G-men can’t just muscle their way onto a federally recognized Native American reservation. There are protocols.”

  For a wild moment she considered telling him about her vision—as if that might impel the bureaucratic machinery into action. But she dismissed the thought almost immediately. Even if, by some miracle, it worked, she’d lose credibility with Sid forever. Messages from psychic beavers weren’t going to help her get her job back.