Chilling Effect (20 page)

where between fi ve feet, ten inches and six feet tall, somewhere

between twenty-fi ve and thirty-fi ve years old.

“Can I help you, buddy?” Joe asked, not rudely, but with no

invitation in his voice.

“Just wondering where you got the car out front.” His tone was

fl at, nasal but not menacing.

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MELISSA F. MILLER

“It’s a loaner. Why?”

Th e guy narrowed his eyes. “Looks a lot like a car a friend of

mine used to drive.”

“Oh? Who’s your friend?” Aroostine asked brightly, hoping he

couldn’t hear her heart pounding from where he stood.

“Nobody. Just a guy I know.”

Th ey looked at the man, and he looked back at them for a

moment in silent détente.

“Do you work at the casino up at White Springs?” she pressed.

His face closed. Gave no clues. He just turned and walked back

to his stool.

“Weirdo,” Joe mumbled under his breath. He loosened his grip

on her leg.

She exhaled and relaxed her hand, letting the key slip to the

table.

“Yeah. Just some freak. We need to chill out.” She kept her voice

calm to reassure him, but her heart was knocking against her chest.

“A hot bath and some rest will go a long way to rebalancing us,”

he agreed.

A hot bath.
She let herself drift into a daydream about bubbles and a nearly endless supply of water.

When Donna came back balancing their food on a round tray,

Aroostine asked if she knew the guy at the counter.

Donna wheeled around and looked at the counter. “Who? Old

Christian over there reading his Harlequin Romance folded inside a

military biography?”

“No, the other guy—” Aroostine pointed to where the man had

been sitting but the stool was empty. He was gone—he’d slipped out

without her noticing.

158

Joe followed the circle through the parking lot to the guest drop-

off at the resort. A valet ran out from under the canopy, his collar turned up against the light misty rain that had been falling ever

since they’d gotten back on the road.

“Park it for you, sir?”

Aroostine shook her head. “No. We’re going to self park. He’s

just letting me out.”

She was too jumpy to let someone else have access to their

vehicle—especially after their run-in with the man at the diner.

She’d choked down her eggs and found she’d lost her appetite

for El e’s homemade pie. Th ey’d eaten in a hurry, spooked by the

stranger, and left the twenty on the table for Donna. When they

walked out into the diner’s parking lot, she was glad she’d passed

on the dessert. She almost lost her breakfast at the sight of a piece of paper stuck under the Tercel’s windshield wipers, fl uttering in the wind.

MELISSA F. MILLER

Joe had taken a deep breath and plucked it with two fi ngers,

glanced down at it, then handed it to her still folded in half. Her full name was scribbled on the front. Inside was a telephone number with a local area code. After she’d spent a good ten minutes crawling around underneath the car, they’d driven in silence to the resort—

Joe split his attention between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, as if he expected to see someone chasing them; she stared down at the telephone number on the scrap of paper in her lap.

Joe cleared his throat. “Go ahead, Roo. I’ll park it and be in in a minute.”

She jolted back to the present. “Right. Sorry.”

She hopped out of the car and smiled at the valet, who seemed

to have no hard feelings about the loss of the tip and was already

holding the door open for her. She crossed the gleaming marble

fl oor and stood in front of the rosewood front desk.

Th e willowy Asian woman clacking softly on the keys of a com-

puter smiled up at her.

“Oh, Ms. Higgins, good afternoon. I have a package for you.”

She glided to a credenza behind the desk and scooped up a large

brown envelope. She handed it to Aroostine with a graceful gesture.

Her every movement was precise and beautiful, as if she were some

modern-day geisha performing a complicated tea ritual.

“Th ank you.” Aroostine glanced down at the package. Th e

computer-generated label showed the Eugene Department of

Justice fi eld offi ce as the return address.
Good work, Sid.

“Certainly. Is there anything else, Ms. Higgins?” the desk clerk

asked.

“Actually there is. I’m afraid I’ve lost my room key.” She smiled

apologetically.

“No trouble at all,” the woman assured her. She swiped a key

card through a reader in a fl uid motion and handed it to Aroostine.

“Will there be anything else?”

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CHILLING EFFECT

“Nope. All set. Th anks so much.”

Aroostine turned away from the desk just in time to watch Joe

jog into the lobby, shaking the rain out of his hair like a dog.

“What do you have there?” He nodded toward the package in

her hands.

“Care package from Sid. Come on, we’ll open it in the room.”

Th ey made their way to the elevator bank and boarded the

waiting elevator car. As the door closed, Aroostine turned to Joe. “I call the bath.”

His blue eyes darkened with desire. “I thought maybe we could

share. You know, conserve resources.”

Her pulse fl uttered—but for the fi rst time all day, it wasn’t from fear.

Aroostine melted back into the pile of overstuff ed pillows that covered the bed and closed her eyes, her wet hair fanned out behind

her. She sighed contentedly.

“Feeling okay?” Joe asked.

She opened one eye. “Are you kidding me? ‘Okay’ doesn’t begin

to do my current state justice. I’m clean, sated, and spent.”

“Th en I suppose my work here is done.”

He pounded his bare chest in faux machismo and tightened

the towel around his waist. She rolled her eyes and pushed her-

self off the bed, wrapping the sheet around her and tucking one

end into the top as if she were wearing a very long sarong. She

picked up the package from the Department of Justice and ripped it

open. She shook out the contents onto the bed: two new passports;

Pennsylvania driver’s licenses; a thick wad of rubber-banded cash,

two smartphones with chargers; and a replacement credit card. She

nodded her approval.

161

MELISSA F. MILLER

“Th anks, Uncle Sid,” Joe said behind her.

She scanned the short memo authorizing her to lead the inves-

tigation into the various recent criminal incidents on the White

Springs Reservation, noted that it was signed by both Sid and the

director of the Offi ce of Tribal Aff airs, and set it aside.

“Looks like we’re back in business.”

“Tell me you mean in the morning.”

“Get dressed, Tarzan,” she instructed. “I’ve got some calls to make.”

She started with the easiest one but Sid didn’t answer. She left

a short message thanking him and letting him know she’d received

the package. Th en she waffl ed, trying to decide who to call next. She settled on Chief Johnson.

Th e dispatch operator put her through immediately.

“Lee Buckmount’s got himself a hotshot criminal defense attor-

ney all the way from the city. He’s stinking up my station with his expensive cologne. Are you coming back tonight or what?”

“Hello to you, too, chief.”

“I’m serious, Ms. Higgins. Boom insists we can’t do anything

without your say-so. So get yourself back here and say something.”

“Is Boom there?” she asked, ignoring the grumping.

“I think so. Last I saw, he was trying to con Lee’s big-city lawyer into a game of poker. Hang on.”

A loud clunk sounded in her ear. Apparently, Chief Johnson put

callers on hold by dropping his phone receiver on his desk. While

she waited, Aroostine cradled the phone between her ear and shoul-

der and rifl ed through her suitcase for a pair of yoga pants and her softest long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Yeah, he’s here,” Chief Johnson said, slightly out of breath.

“Hang on.”

She stepped into the pants and pulled the shirt over her head

before Boom got on the line. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw

that, despite his complaining, Joe was also getting dressed.

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CHILLING EFFECT

“Hello? Aroostine?”

“Hi. What’s Buckmount’s lawyer’s name?”

“Gordon Lane. Do you know him?”

“No. Should I?”

“He’s the go-to guy for professional athletes and rich businessmen

who get themselves into trouble. Usually prostitution scandals, as far as I know. Th ough he did represent a member of the judiciary who

tried to run over a fellow judge over a dispute about a parking space.”

“Sounds distinguished.”

“Lane or the judge?”

“Both.”

Boom chuckled. “Do you want to speak to him?”

“Nope. Let him cool his heels a while longer. I’ll be back in a

couple hours. I wanted to talk to you, though.”

“You are talking to me.”

“Right.” She pushed past the awkwardness she felt at the posi-

tion she was putting both of them in and said, “Listen, Washington

wants me to take the lead on investigating what’s going on there.

Chief Johnson seems more than happy to hand the mess off to me.

But he’s focused on career preservation. I don’t know that anyone’s worried about what the tribe wants. I know you can’t speak for the

entire tribe, but you’re on the cultural board—”

“Actually, Lee’s been relieved of his responsibilities as the head

of the Tribal Board, pending the outcome of this . . . mess. I’ve been appointed to fi ll his seat in the meantime. So, I
am
authorized to speak for the tribe on this matter. And not only do we support your federal investigation, we’d like to ask you to handle the prosecution before the Tribal Court.”

“But—”

He anticipated her concern and cut in. “Th ere’s a procedure for

authorizing a member of a sister tribe to fi ll that role. Akin to depu-tizing someone. We’re prepared to accept you, if you’ll take the job.

163

MELISSA F. MILLER

We can pay you a stipend and provide you and Joe with housing,

transportation, and a meal allowance for the duration.”

“Um . . . I’m fl attered, but I need to talk to Joe. And my boss.

I can’t take an appointment that will confl ict with my duties as an assistant US attorney.” She wanted more than anything to say yes—

but whether that was from a longing to belong to a tribe or from the career challenge, she wasn’t sure.

“You should talk to Joe, of course, but we’ve already received

word from the Department of Justice that the Criminal Division

has agreed to loan you out. You should get offi cial approval soon.”

“Oh—okay.” If that had been the intent behind the memo from

Sid and his counterpart at the Offi ce of Tribal Aff airs, the point had been obscured by the bureaucratic language. Her mind was racing.

“I’m not asking you for an answer right now, of course. Th ink.

Talk it over. Perhaps you could sleep on it and see if your spirit

guide weighs in.”

Th e quiet gravitas of his voice acted as a balm. Her worries

about how she’d be perceived by the members of the tribe dissolved

in its wake. Being asked to help the tribe felt like a great honor. It felt like something she should approach with due deliberation and

consideration, but it also felt like a warm invitation.

“Th at sounds like a plan. I should let you get back to jawing at

Mr. Lane.”

She ended the call to the sound of his laughter.

Two down, one to go.

“Why don’t you pack us an overnight bag? Let’s keep this as

our base of operations but plan on sleeping at the cottage on the

reservation tonight.”

“Works for me. You want anything in particular?”

“Nope.”

He started to gather toiletries and clothes in a neat pile while

she pawed through the heap of dirty clothes they had discarded on

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CHILLING EFFECT

the bathroom fl oor. She dug out the telephone number that had

been under the windshield wiper. She grabbed the hotel-branded

notepad and pen from the desk and tapped out the number.

While the phone rang, Joe fi nished dressing and sat down across

from her with open curiosity on his face.

“Want me to put it on speaker?”

“Kind of.”

She shrugged as if to say “why not” and pressed the speaker-

phone button.

Another ring. Th en a wary male voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Th is is Aroostine Higgins.”

Th e sound of a shaky breath being exhaled fi lled the room

through the tinny speaker.

“Th ank you for calling.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Who are you, and how do you know who

I am?”

“My name isn’t really important, but I think I’m probably the

last person who spoke to Isaac Palmer before he was killed.”

Joe’s eyes widened. He mouthed, “I thought that was you.”

“So did I,” she mouthed back.

Th e man continued, “Which is how I know who you are. Or, at

least, who I thought you were when I saw you at the diner.”

“How so?”

“Isaac called me two days ago. Said some federal lawyer, name

of Aroostine Higgins, was coming to see him. Said she was an Indian chick from back East. When I saw you two pull into the diner in his car I fi gured you were the lady he was talking about.”

Good use of context clues, she thought. Joe must have been

thinking the same thing, judging by the way he nodded his head.