Chilling Effect (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 2) Read online

  “Aroostine?”

  “Let me think about it, Sid. E-mail me the file and Mr. Palmer’s contact information.”

  “Thank you. I knew you’d do the right thing.”

  “I haven’t said yes.”

  “You will.”

  She ended the call and let Joe sweep her into one of his big, tight hugs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Joe cocked his head and appraised his wife. She was curled up in the window seat with a light cotton blanket wrapped around her. But instead of gazing out at the endless mountain vista that stretched across the sky, she had her nose in a book—or her electronic tablet, to be exact.

  With the diffuse light behind her, she was a slightly softer, more mature version of the Aroostine he’d dated in college. He could almost always find her studying—engrossed in a book with her legs hooked beneath her, a blanket around her shoulders, and that long curtain of dark hair partially obscuring her face.

  He smiled at the memory and crossed the room to stand near her.

  She swiped the device to mark her place, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and gazed up at him with an open expression. Not annoyed at the interruption, but curious about what he wanted.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come along?”

  He tucked a stray strand of her glossy hair behind her ear as he asked the question, just as an excuse to touch her. He still couldn’t believe he’d almost lost her because of his pigheaded refusal to meet her halfway. He shoved the thought out of his head and let his hand drop to her shoulder.

  She considered him with sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes.

  “You’re sweet, but that hike kicked my butt. I think I’m going to take a nap and then maybe check out the sauna. You go have fun; you’ve been excited about this craft beer thingy ever since the concierge mentioned it.”

  It was true. Oregon was known for its artisanal beers, and the resort had organized a tour of several local breweries for interested guests. Good beer was one of his passions. But Aroostine rarely drank and loathed the taste of beer.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  He watched her face, searching her expression for a hint of annoyance or hurt.

  “Sweetheart, please. We’re not Siamese twins. This is something you know you’ll enjoy. It’s not a personal affront to me if you have hobbies, you know.”

  “I know. It’s just . . . this trip is about rediscovering each other.”

  She gave him a lazy smile. “So go discover some new beers and then come back here and rediscover me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard.

  She leaned into him. Her honey-scented body lotion wafted from her skin and enveloped him. All thoughts of amber ales, extra-hoppy IPAs, and chocolaty porters faded from his mind. He pressed closer against her.

  She leaned back and gave him a playful shove.

  “Go already. Let me have my nap and recharge.”

  He sighed in mock resignation.

  “Thanks, baby.”

  “Go.”

  She waved him toward the door then woke up her screen and returned to whatever it was she’d been reading.

  Aroostine yawned and switched off the tablet. Her entire body was stiff. A nap and a steamy sauna were definitely on her agenda.

  The climb up Broken Top had been worth it—the view from the top was spectacular, breathtaking even, and they’d stood there in silent communion for a very long time drinking it all in—but the hike itself had been strenuous. They’d chosen the more challenging of the two marked paths, and she was paying for it with sore muscles, aching feet, and a serious sense of fatigue.

  She was glad Joe had gone on the beer tour. Now she could indulge in a guilt-free nap.

  She flopped on the impossibly high, improbably fluffy cloud of bedding that graced the king bed and closed her eyes.

  Unbidden, the notes from the electronic file on Isaac Palmer flitted through her mind. The file had been a quick read. Mr. Palmer had spilled a wealth of information during his initial telephone interview and then clammed up. The evidence he had shared was definitely compelling and pointed to a large-scale embezzlement operation. The notes also showed he had that most prized ability in a witness: to explain the minutiae of a complex scheme in clear, easy to understand language. The upshot of the report was Isaac Palmer could tie forty thousand dollars a week, every week, to a dummy accounting entry. Whoever was behind the movements had chosen a number low enough that it wouldn’t attract attention, at least not immediately, but high enough that, with consistent transfers, it would drain over two million dollars a year from the casino’s coffers. The siphoned funds were redirected into an account Palmer had traced to a bank in the Cayman Islands. It was death by forty thousand cuts.

  She saw why Sid was eager to secure the man’s ongoing cooperation.

  She didn’t see why Sid was so sure she was the one to do it.

  For one thing, according to his dossier, Mr. Palmer traced his lineage to the Wasco tribe, part of the Chinook Nation. She was Lenape. More accurately, she was white-bread American, but her heritage stretched back to the Eastern Lenape Nation. The Chinooks had settled in the extreme eastern part of Oregon; the Lenape, in the mid-Atlantic region.

  It was as if Sid expected a Vietnamese village woman to bond with a Japanese businessman simply because they both knew how to use chopsticks. He didn’t mean to be insulting. But he was misguided, at best.

  And more important than Sid’s cluelessness was the fact that she simply wasn’t going to interrupt her time with Joe to do him a favor. She had to admit she wanted another shot at Main Justice, just to prove she had the talent and work ethic to handle complex, high-profile cases. But she wasn’t sure her marriage was sturdy enough to weather her return to that environment. Not just yet. She and Joe were still rebuilding. Her energies were better spent on her marriage than on currying favor with the powers that be within the Department of Justice.

  She needed to focus on repairing her foundation with Joe. She couldn’t afford any distractions—not even a small one that would get her back into Sid’s good graces.

  She inhaled deeply through her nose and emptied her mind, preparing herself for restorative sleep.

  Three minutes later, her eyes popped open, and she sat bolt upright.

  Sleep was not going to happen. Not now. Not with the whirring activity in her brain.

  She sighed and pushed off the covers. As she paced in a tight circle around the suite, she tried to identify the root of her dis-ease.

  Her grandfather’s words rang in her ears. Dis-ease, little one, the word itself means disease. When you’re troubled and not at ease in the world examine your heart just as we examine the roots and shoots of a diseased plant. Look for the spots where the disease grows and then you’ll know how to cure it.

  She’d been six, and their small vegetable garden had been under siege. Almost overnight, their tall, straight plants had begun to wilt and rot in the ground. They’d meticulously searched every leaf and stalk until they uncovered the source. Late blight, her grandfather had declared, showing her the white fungal spots on the undersides of a tomato plant. They’d mixed up a copper-lime spray and treated the plants, saving what would turn out to be the last harvest before he died and she went to live with the Higginses.

  It’d been years since she’d recalled that garden patch. Like every other memory from the first seven years of her life, it had been tucked away in a corner of her mind—the loss of her grandfather was too painful to dwell on. And she’d begun a new life, with new customs and a new culture. The old memories hadn’t belonged.

  Now she pressed her forehead against the cool window pane and stared out at the late-afternoon sun blazing red over the horizon. She knew the source of her dis-ease.

  She didn’t want pass up the opportunity for redemption that Sid had offered.

  But she didn’t want to upset the delicate balance that she and Joe had achieved.
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br />   She twisted a section of hair around her finger.

  What did she want?

  She wanted to impress Sid without hurting Joe.

  Was such a feat even doable?

  Joe would be gone for four hours. Isaac Palmer lived on the White Springs Reservation, eighty miles away. She didn’t drive. She’d have to convince him to meet with her, find a way to get to him, and get back before Joe returned for the late dinner he’d promised her.

  Her eyes fell on the faux leather binder on the desk. She flipped it open to the local activities section and confirmed that the resort offered car service to the White Springs casino, located just over an hour to the north. She did some quick calculations in her head. Assume a conservative two and a half hours for round-trip travel time and an hour to talk to Mr. Palmer. It would be tight, but the timing could work. If Isaac agreed to talk to her.

  She pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and snapped an elastic band around it. Then she shook out her hands and tapped Isaac Palmer’s telephone number into her phone.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “You sure this is the right place, ma’am?” the driver craned his neck back to look at her.

  Aroostine stared through the town car’s backseat window and tried to shake the feeling that she’d been transported back in time.

  Isaac Palmer’s home sat in the exact middle of a row of five dusty A-frames in varying states of sagging disrepair. In the twilight, the sturdiest of the homes, two houses to the left of Isaac’s, could have passed for her grandfather’s house. It was the same simple style, made from the same building materials—mainly wood, like a mountain cabin or beachside cottage minus the majestic setting. But the clincher was the straw broom propped against the wall beside the door. Whoever lived in that house appeared to share her late grandfather’s habit of sweeping all the bad energy and dust out of the house at the end of each day. Another memory that she hadn’t thought of in decades.

  She bit down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

  “Ma’am?”

  She shook herself back to the present.

  “This is the address.”

  She peered at the dark, shuttered windows. Isaac had said he’d turn on the light in the front room. She really hoped the dark house didn’t signal a change of heart.

  “You want me to wait and make sure you get inside okay?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  She wanted the gleaming town car to disappear from this desolate residential area before it drew attention.

  “Okay, then like I said, I’ll be up at the casino just playing a few hands. You just call the number on my card when you’re ready to go back. The casino’s up at the far end of the reservation. Call me about thirty minutes before you wrap up.”

  “A half hour?”

  “The reservation’s land totals almost a thousand square miles, and the roads are crap. We’re easily thirty minutes from the parts they want you to see.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Tony.”

  “You’re sure you’re going to be okay here alone? This place is overrun with criminals.” His neck reddened, and he hurried to add, “Uh, no offense.”

  “None taken. I’ll be fine. Hope you get lucky.”

  She flashed him an insincere smile and stepped out of the car. He drove away slowly, whether because he was reluctant to leave her or because he had difficulty negotiating the bumpy hard-packed earth that passed for a road, she couldn’t tell.

  Once the car’s tail lights had disappeared from view, she smoothed the front of her dress, squared her shoulders, and rapped lightly on Isaac’s front door.

  While she waited for him to answer, she took in the peeling white paint and the rusted screen door. She wondered why he still lived on the reservation. His file indicated that he’d taken two years of accounting courses at the local community college and had gone on to become a certified public accountant. A job at the casino would come with a decent salary, mandatory overtime pay, and benefits. Surely he could afford to move to the small town on the outskirts of White Springs.

  The house was still.

  She frowned and rapped again.

  He hadn’t taken as much convincing as she’d expected. As soon as she’d introduced herself, he’d surprised her by asking if her name was Lenape. Score one for Sid.

  Had Isaac’s readiness to talk to her been an act? Maybe he’d hung up and hightailed it out of there?

  She waited another moment before walking around to the back of the house. She passed beside his neighbor’s house, startling a cat that jumped out of the scrubby brush and hissed at her before slinking away.

  Aside from the irritated tomcat, she spotted no signs of life. The back of Isaac’s house was as dark as the front.

  The single small window set into the back wall was closed. Next to it, a plain wooden door hung slightly ajar. Parked a few feet behind the house on a patch of dried earth was a late-model Toyota. He was home.

  She eased the door open about a foot and poked her head into the dark kitchen.

  “Mr. Palmer? Isaac? It’s me, Aroostine Higgins.”

  She listened as her voice echoed off the silent walls. The faint ticking of a clock and the hum of a refrigerator were the only response.

  No other sounds.

  Her pulse ticked faster as she stepped inside and ran her hand along the wall until she hit a light switch.

  An overhead bulb blinked to life slowly.

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, she surveyed the kitchen. It was old and worn, but clean.

  Isaac said he’d been eating an early supper when she called. If so, he’d finished and tidied up.

  The dishpan was empty. The counter had been wiped down with a wet rag, the circles still visible, and the faded linoleum floor had been swept clean.

  “Mr. Palmer?” she called again, louder this time, projecting her voice toward the front of the small house. “Are you okay?”

  There was no answer.

  Her heart banged in her chest.

  Maybe he fell asleep in the front room waiting for her.

  It was a reasonable explanation. But her legs seemed to be frozen to the spot just inside the kitchen door. Her hand, of its own volition, clung to the door frame as if she feared being swept out to sea.

  Maybe she should walk back outside and try his telephone number.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. He’s just a room away, probably having a cat nap. Go wake him up and get on with it.

  Finally, she crept forward, through the empty kitchen and a shadowy doorway and into the dark front room. She could just detect the shape of a man slumped in an easy chair by the front window, his head lolling back against the chair’s headrest.

  Aroostine’s hammering heart slowed, and she let out a shaky, embarrassed laugh at herself. Then she crossed the small room to wake her dozing witness.

  “Mr. Palmer, wake up.” She kept her voice soft as she shook him gently. She didn’t want to frighten him.

  He didn’t move.

  “Isaac.” She called him a little bit louder this time and gave him a more vigorous shake.

  Jeez, and she thought Joe slept like the dead.

  She reached over and switched on the small lamp centered on a side table near the chair.

  Isaac Palmer’s sightless eyes appeared to be staring right at her. The bullet hole between them formed an almost perfect circle. A small trail of congealed blood snaked down his forehead and into his gaping mouth.

  Aroostine stumbled out the front door and onto the dusty patch of ground that served as the late Isaac Palmer’s front lawn. She fumbled for her phone, trying to pull up Joe’s number, but her hands were trembling too much.

  Breathe, she told herself. Slow down. Take a breath.

  She gulped down three long swallows of the cool evening air. Then when her heart had slowed and her hands were somewhat steadier, she tried again.

  As the call connected, she scanned the street. No activity. No kids playing
a game of pickup. No lovers canoodling. No dog walkers. Nothing to hint that people made their lives here. Maybe everyone was off at some community event or closed up in their houses updating their Facebook statuses. Whatever the reason, the deserted streets felt creepy.

  It was just her on a lonely stretch of land with a dead man in the house behind her.

  After the fourth ring, Joe picked up.

  “Hey, Roo.”

  His voice was relaxed, inviting. The sound of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the background.

  “I need you,” she said without preamble.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, instantly serious.

  She ignored the question and plowed right into her story. “I’m on the White Springs Reservation. I came here to meet a witness, but when I got here, he was dead. My God, he was murdered—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. You’re . . . on a reservation? How’d you get there?”

  “Shuttle service from the resort. Listen, I’m sorry. I know I agreed not to work on this trip, but Sid asked for a favor and—”

  “That’s what the call was about this morning?” Irritation seeped through the phone receiver.

  “Yes. Can we focus here? There’s a dead guy. I . . . I’m scared, Joe.”

  Instantly, the agitation left his voice.

  “Okay, right. You’re okay? Are you someplace safe?”

  She swept the desolate strip of land with her eyes. Was Isaac Palmer’s killer watching her from behind one of the other shacks? Or from out in the windswept plains? A red-tailed hawk circled the field, and a shiver ran down her spine. The sight of the opportunistic predator out hunting made her feel as though she were prey herself.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted.

  “Text me the address. I’m on my way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just stay put. Don’t do anything brave—or stupid.”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I’m going to call Sid and then the tribal police. Then I guess I’ll let the shuttle driver know he can take off. I imagine we’ll be here awhile dealing with the authorities.” Ever since his kidnapping he’d acted as if her natural response to danger was to rush into it. He didn’t realize that her bravery was a direct response to that fact that he had been the one in peril.