Storm Warning. Michele Hauf
Chapter Fourteen
Jason Cash squeezed the throttle on the snowmobile he handled as if a professional racer. The five-hundred-pound sled took to the air for six bliss-filled seconds. Snow sprays kissed Jason’s cheeks. Sun glinted in the airborne crystals. The machine landed on the ground, skis gliding smoothly onto the trail. With an irrepressible grin on his face, he raced down an incline toward the outer limits of Frost Falls, the small Minnesota town where he served as chief of police.
Thanks to his helmet’s audio feed, a country tune twanged in his ears. His morning ride through the pristine birch forest that cupped the town on the north side had been interrupted by a call from his secretary/dispatcher through that same feed. He couldn’t complain about the missed winter thrills when a much-needed mystery waited ahead.
Maneuvering the snowmobile through a choppy field with shifts of his weight, he steered toward a roadside ditch, above which were parked the city patrol car and a white SUV he recognized as a county vehicle. Sighting a thick undisturbed wedge of snow that had drifted from the gravel road to form an inviting ridge, Jason aimed for the sparkling payload, accelerated and pierced the ridge. An exhilarated shout spilled free.
Gunning the engine, he traveled the last fifty feet, then braked and spun out the back of the machine in a spectacular snow cloud that swirled about him. He parked and turned off the machine.
Flipping up the visor and peeling off his helmet, he glanced to the woman and young man who stood twenty yards away staring at him. At least one jaw dropped open in awe.
A cocky wink was necessary. Jason would never miss a chance to stir up the powder. And every day was a good day when it involved gripping it and ripping it.
Setting his helmet emblazoned with neon-green fire on the snowmobile seat, he tugged down the thermal face mask from his nose and mouth to hook under his chin. The thermostat read a nippy ten degrees. Already ice crystals formed on the sweat that had collected near his eyebrows. He did love the brisk, clean air.
It wasn’t so brutally cold today as it had been last week when temps had dipped below zero. But the warm-up forecast a blizzard within forty-eight hours. He looked forward to snowmobiling through the initial onset, but once the storm hit full force, he’d hole up and wait for the pristine powder that would blanket the perimeter of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, where he liked to blaze his own trails.
Clapping his gloved hands together, he strode over to his crack team of homicide investigators. Well, today they earned that title. It was rare Frost Falls got such interesting work. Rare? The correct term was nonexistent. Jason was pleased to have something more challenging on his docket than arresting Ole Svendson after a good drunk had compelled him to strip to his birthday suit and wander down Main Street. A man shouldn’t have to see such things. And so frequently.
He almost hated to share the case with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, but Marjorie had already put in a call to them. Someone from the BCA would arrive soon. Standard procedure when a homicide occurred within city limits.
“Cash.” Alex Larson, who had just graduated from the police academy and headed north from the Twin Cities to find work, with hopes of eventually getting placed on search and rescue, nodded as Jason walked nearer. The tall, gangly man was twenty-four and had an eye for safety and a curiosity for all things female. Unfortunately, most of the women in Frost Falls were over forty. Not many of the younger ones stuck around after high school. Smart move in a dying town. The Red Band iron mine had closed four years ago. That closure had sent the migrant workers—and far too many locals—packing in search of a reliable paycheck.
Alex was the only officer Jason needed in the little town of Frost Falls, population 627.
Though, from the looks of things, the population was now 626.
A middle-aged woman, wearing a black goose-down coat that fell to her knees and bright red cap, scarf and mittens, stood beside Alex. Elaine Hester was a forensic pathologist with the St. Louis County medical examiner’s office. She traveled the seven-hundred-square-mile area so often she joked about selling her property in Duluth and getting herself an RV. She gestured toward the snowy ditch that yet sported the dried brown heads of fall’s bushy cattails. The forthcoming blizzard would clip that punky crop down to nothing.
“What have you got, Elaine?” Jason asked, even though his dispatcher, Marjorie, had already told him about the body.
Jason led the team toward the ditch and saw the sprawled female body dressed in jeans and a sweater—no coat, gloves or hat—long black hair, lying facedown. The snow might have initially melted due to her body heat, so she was sunk in to her ears, and as death had forfeited her natural heat, the warmed slush had iced up around her and now crusted in the fibers of her red sweater.
“Female, mid-to late-twenties. Time of death could be last evening,” Elaine reported in her usual detached manner. She held a camera and had likely already snapped a few shots. “Didn’t want to move the body for closer inspection until you arrived, Cash. You call in the BCA?”
“On their way. We can continue processing the crime scene. The BCA will help, if necessary. Last night, eh?”
“I suspect she was dumped here around midnightish.”
Jason met Alex’s gaze, above which the officer’s brow quirked. They both tended to share a silent snicker at Elaine’s frequent use of ish tacked to the end of words when she couldn’t be exact.
“How do you know