Читать книгу Storm Warning - Michele Hauf - Страница 12

Jason breezed into the station but didn’t unzip his coat or stomp his boots. Marjorie had gotten used to his tromping in ice and snow and had laid down a rubber runner mat a year ago. She still complained about the mess, but when he’d given her a budget for a monthly rug cleaning, she’d settled.

That would all change soon enough. He wasn’t sure how to tell her the station might be closed in March. He had to tell her. Maybe if he waited, it would never happen?

“There’s a message,” Marjorie started as he walked by.

“From the BCA?” Jason asked.

“No, Bay’s in your office—”

He strode into his office and closed the door behind him. “Bay.”

The agent was seated in the extra chair against the wall beneath a sixteen-point deer rack with a laptop open and his focus pinned to the screen. “Cash. Give me a minute.”

“Minute’s all you get. I’m investigating a murder. Have to get out there. Talk to people. Gather information.”

Walking across the room, Jason pushed aside the shades to give him a view of Main Street. He’d seen Smith’s SUV heading east toward Highway 35. The man had taken the hint.

On the other hand... He glanced down the street toward the gas station that sat at town’s edge.

“They still renting snowcats from the gas station?” Jason called out to Marjorie.

“You betcha. Jason, do you want some krumkake?”

That invite turned his head. He strode back into the next room and eyed the plate of sweet treats Marjorie pointed to on the corner of her desk. Half a dozen delicate rolled sweets sat on a Corelle plate decorated around the circumference with green leaves (just like his mother’s set). Krumkake were like crunchy crepes, but so light and delicious.

“You make those?” he asked.

“Of course. I use my grandmother’s krumkake iron. They don’t make those things anymore, don’t ya know.”

He grabbed one of the treats and bit into it, catching the inevitable crumbs with his other hand. Two more bites and it was gone. He grabbed another, then tugged out his notebook and tore out a few pages to hand to Marjorie. “Can you type up these notes I took while talking to Susan Olson?”

“Of course. I’ve already got a case file started. Elaine Hester forwarded the autopsy report for the woman in the ditch. I left a copy on your desk, and Bay’s got a copy as well.”

“Yeah, she texted me the name Yvette Pearson.” Jason wandered back into his office and closed the door behind him.

Ryan Bay stood and set the laptop on Jason’s desk. “I’ve got family info on the victim.”

“Lives in a Minneapolis suburb,” Jason said. Susan had been sure the women at the club the other night were from the Twin Cities, because one had worn a jacket with a high school logo embroidered on the sleeve. “Blaine?”

“Yes, Blaine. I’ve already contacted their police department so they can get in touch with the family.”

“I’ve got a list of the deceased’s friends I intend to question as soon as I step out of the station. But first, I’m going to head east and check on—”

“That pretty young woman you talked to in The Moose?” Marjorie asked as she entered with the plate of treats in hand.

Marjorie took his silence as the hint she needed it to be and, after handing him the plate, she left the office with a promise to get right to his notes.

Jason closed the office door again and nodded to Bay, who turned his laptop toward him. “Classic homicide. Ligature marks. Struggle bruises on forearms and DNA under fingernails.”

“Yep, I was there for the autopsy. It was all very clean. Generally there’s much more bruising on the body as the killer struggles to complete the unfamiliar—or unintended—task. Anger and aggression.”

Bay shook his head and exhaled heavily. “You said you talked to the woman who found the body?”

“Yes, she gave me the names of the women the victim was last seen with. That’s where I’m going next—”

“I thought there was a pretty young woman?” Bay said with a smirk.

“A...” Jason closed his eyes and shook his head. Marjorie really needed to stay out of his personal life. But the worst part of it was that she knew about his personal life before it tended to get personal. “Never mind,” he said. “You don’t want to question the victim’s friends, do you?”

Bay tilted his head, a casual thought process taking place inside his perfectly coiffed head. He wore a suit, for some damn reason, and it looked like his fingernails had been manicured for the glossy shine. Was that what women found attractive? Yikes.

“Go for it,” Bay said. “The locals are more likely to be comfortable talking to someone they know. When I consult on a case, I like to guide and keep track, but ultimately, this is your case, Cash. I’m not going to trample on your turf. And I’m starving. I haven’t eaten yet today.”

“Then The Moose is your next stop.” Jason picked up the documents Marjorie had left for him on his desk. “You staying in town?”

“There’s no motel. Snow Lake has a halfway decent Best Western and free coffee.”

“Not a problem. My office is yours. I’ll let you know what I learn.” Jason strode out and through the reception area, pleased that Bay was easygoing. Which would give him all the rope he required to control this investigation. He really needed this one. It was an opportunity to show the powers that be that he had what it took to manage real police work, and that the Frost Falls police force, as small as it was, was a necessity.

Instead of the snowmobile, he’d drive the Ford. He could use some warmth. Turning up the car heater to blast, Jason rolled down Main Street, the car tires crunching as if across Styrofoam as they moved over the packed snow. He loved that sound. It was hard to describe to anyone who didn’t live on snow six months out of the year. To him it meant home.

From here he could see the small parking lot in front of the gas station. No business name on the broken red-and-white sign above the station. It had been called just “gas station” forever, according to an elder member of the town.

And yet, when Jason cruised closer to the gas station, he saw the black SUV parked around the back side of the white cinder-block building. It was the one licensed to James Smith.

“What the hell?”

He pulled into the station lot. Hopping out of the truck and blowing out a breath that condensed to a fog, Jason quickened his pace into the station.

“Afternoon, Cash,” the owner said from his easy chair placed on a dais behind the cash register. Easier to see out the window and watch the town’s goings-on from that height.

“You rent out any cats this afternoon, Rusty?”

“I just did, not ten minutes ago. Local fellow.”

“Local?”

“Well, you know, he mentioned he was from Duluth. That’s local.”

It was. The port city that sat on Lake Superior was an hour’s drive east and within the St. Louis County lines.

“Gave him directions to the falls and told him to stick to the trails,” Rusty said, “but I think he went east. Idiot. Your brother still with the State Patrol?”

“Justin? Yep. He’s stationed near the Canadian border right now. Big drug-surveillance op going on.”

“Those marijuana farms.” Rusty shook his head.

“You betcha. What was the name of the renter?”

Rusty tapped a crinkled piece of paper hanging from a clipboard to the right of the register. “Smith. Sounded foreign. And not Canadian foreign. He was a mite different. Like those duck hunters they got on that television show.”

“Thanks, Rusty. Gotta go.”

Jason made haste to the truck, and before the door was even closed he pulled out onto the main road and turned to hit the eastbound road that led to the Birch Bower cabin. It was only five miles out, but with each mile the forest thickened and hugged closer on both sides of the narrowing road. It was as desolate as a place could get so close to a small town.

As he drove down the gravel road that the plow only tackled every Monday morning, he noted the snowmobile tracks lain down on the road shoulder. A couple of them. Freshly impressed into the crusted snowpack. One set must belong to Yvette. The other?

“Smith.”

In his next thought, Jason wondered if he were getting worked up over nothing. No. She’d said she didn’t know anyone in town. And yet she had looked at the SUV for a while.

Didn’t feel right to Jason. And if he’d learned anything over the years, it was to trust his intuition.

* * *

ONE OF THE reasons Yvette hadn’t minded leaving home for a while was that she’d been questioning her job choice for some time now. She’d never been fooled that being a field operative for an international security agency was glamourous or even 24/7 action-adventure. The job could be tedious at times. Mildly adrenalizing, at best. Most people associated spies with glamour and blockbuster movies. In truth, the average agent spent more time doing boring surveillance than the few minutes of contact with a suspect that might provide that thrill of action.

Yet beyond the intrigue and danger, a surprising moral struggle had presented itself to her when she was faced with pulling the trigger on a human target. She was not a woman prone to crying fits. And yet, the tears had threatened when she’d been standing in the field, gun aimed at a person and—she’d been unable to pull the trigger. Human life meant something to her. Even if the human she had been charged to fire at was a criminal who had committed vile crimes. She’d not expected to only realize such moral leanings until the heat of the moment, but that pause had changed her life irreversibly.

She asked for a change of pace and had, thankfully, been allowed to continue her work in data tech. A job that didn’t fulfill her in any tangible manner. It had become an endless stream of data on the computer screen.

Now seclusion in a snow-covered cabin offered an excellent time to consider her future. Did she really want to continue on this career path? Days ago, she’d started a list of pros and cons regarding her current employer.

Yvette tapped the pen beside her temple as she delved deep for another pro. She felt it necessary to write down the good as well as the bad reasons to stay or leave. Solid and tangible. Easy to review. Difficult to deny once inked on paper. Because she’d followed in her parents’ footsteps, career-wise. Had thought she was cut out for the gritty hard-core work it required.

Yet to her surprise, the desk job had, strangely, become more dangerous than fieldwork. She had seen something on the computer screen that she was not supposed to see. She just didn’t know what that something was, because it had been a list, and perhaps even coded.

Setting aside the pros and cons list and getting up to stretch, she exhaled. She’d been working on the list for an hour while listening to the wind whip against the exterior timber walls. A blizzard was forecast.

“Joy,” she muttered mirthlessly and wandered into the kitchen.

No thought cells could operate without a healthy dose of chocolate. Plucking a mug out of the cupboard, she then filled the teapot with water and set that on the stove burner.

She shook the packet of hot chocolate mix into the mug. Right now, she needed a heat injection. Her toes were freezing, even though she wore two layers of socks. And her fingers felt like ice. She’d turned up the heater upon returning from the grocery run, but it didn’t want to go any higher than seventy-four degrees.

With the wind scraping across the windows, she felt as if she sat in a wooden icebox. A glance to the fireplace made her sigh. A woodpile sat neatly stacked outside and behind the house. The owners had suggested she carry some in before too much snow fell, but she’d not done that. After she’d fortified her chilled bones with hot chocolate, she’d have to bundle up and bring out the ax to chip the frozen logs apart. The night demanded a toasty fire in the hearth.

The teapot whistled, and she poured the steaming water into the mug. Oh, how she missed the thick, dark chocolate drink served exclusively by the French tea shop Angelina. Unfortunately, the shop hadn’t come to Lyon, but she visited Paris often enough and stocked up when there.

Tilting back the oversweet chocolate drink, she sighed and took a moment to savor the heat filling her belly. Who would have thought she could enjoy a moment of warmth so thoroughly? It was a different kind of warmth from the one she’d felt sitting in the diner talking to the chief of police. Colette had been spot on regarding her assessment of the man. He was a handsome one. He’d seemed about her age, too.

A knock on the front door startled her. That was—not weird. The postman knocked every day with her mail in hand. Not that she got personal mail. It was always ads and flyers for retirement homes. But she did appreciate his smile and some chat. He often asked if she was comfy and did she like fruitcake? His wife had extra. Yvette always declined with the knowledge that fruitcake was not a culinary treat.

Yet something stopped her from approaching the door. She still couldn’t erase the police chief’s question about the mysterious SUV. It had seemed out of place in the small town. And she was no woman to ignore the suspicious.

Grasping a pen from the kitchen counter, Yvette fit the heavy steel object into her curled fingers, then walked cautiously over to the door. She stood there a moment, staring at the unfinished pine wood that formed the solid barrier. There was no peephole.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Delivery,” answered back. “Is your name...Yvette?”

“Yes, but...” Yvette frowned. It was her cover name. She hadn’t ordered anything. And she’d only this morning asked Colette to order the helmet.

“It’s from The Moose,” the man said. “You didn’t order anything?”

“No,” she called back. “It’s food? Who sent it?”

A pause, and then, “Note says it’s from a new friend.”

A new friend? And The Moose? But she’d just—had the police chief sent her a gift? Of food? They had discussed pie. How nice of him. And if it was a flirtatious move, she was all in.

Yvette opened the door.

The man standing on the snow-dusted front stoop was tall and dressed all in black, including the black face mask he wore that concealed all but his eyes. He growled and lunged for her. He fit his bare hands about her throat, and Yvette stumbled backward.