Storm Warning. Michele Hauf

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СКАЧАТЬ Chapter Four

      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 СКАЧАТЬ