Authors: Unknown
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 fl opped on the impossibly high, improbably fl uff y cloud of
bedding that graced the king bed and closed her eyes.
Unbidden, the notes from the electronic fi le on Isaac Palmer
fl itted through her mind. Th e fi le had been a quick read. Mr. Palmer had spilled a wealth of information during his initial telephone
interview and then clammed up. Th e evidence he had shared was
defi nitely compelling and pointed to a large-scale embezzlement
operation. Th e 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. Th e 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 cof-fers. Th e siphoned funds were redirected into an account Palmer
13
MELISSA F. MILLER
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 coop-
eration.
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. Th e 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 mis-
guided, 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-
profi le 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 mar-
riage 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 aff ord 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.
Th ree minutes later, her eyes popped open, and she sat bolt
upright.
14
CHILLING EFFECT
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’l
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. Th ey’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. Th ey’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 fi rst 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. Th e 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 hori-
zon. She knew the source of her dis-ease.
She didn’t want pass up the opportunity for redemption that
Sid had off ered.
But she didn’t want to upset the delicate balance that she and
Joe had achieved.
She twisted a section of hair around her fi nger.
What
did
she want?
did
15
MELISSA F. MILLER
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, fi nd 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 fl ipped
it open to the local activities section and confi rmed that the resort off ered 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
If
Isaac agreed to talk to her.
She pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and snapped an
elastic band around it. Th en she shook out her hands and tapped
Isaac Palmer’s telephone number into her phone.
16
“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 fi ve
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.
MELISSA F. MILLER
“Ma’am?”
She shook herself back to the present.
“Th is 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 fi ne.”
She wanted the gleaming town car to disappear from this deso-
late 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. Th e casino’s up at the far end of the reservation. Call me about thirty minutes before you wrap up.”
“A half hour?”
“Th e 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. Th anks, Tony.”
“You’re sure you’re going to be okay here alone? Th is place is
overrun with criminals.” His neck reddened, and he hurried to add,
“Uh, no off ense.”
“None taken. I’ll be fi ne. Hope you get lucky.”
She fl ashed 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 diffi culty 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
18
CHILLING EFFECT
lived on the reservation. His fi le indicated that he’d taken two years of accounting courses at the local community college and had gone
on to become a certifi ed public accountant. A job at the casino
would come with a decent salary, mandatory overtime pay, and
benefi ts. Surely he could aff ord to move to the small town on the outskirts of White Springs.
Th e 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. Th e back of Isaac’s house was as dark as the front.
Th e 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. Th e 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.
19
MELISSA F. MILLER
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 fi nished and tidied up.
Th e dishpan was empty. Th e counter had been wiped down
with a wet rag, the circles still visible, and the faded linoleum fl oor 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?”
Th ere 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. Th en 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.
20
CHILLING EFFECT
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.
Th e 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.
Th en 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 walk-
ers. Nothing to hint that people made their lives here. Maybe everyone was off at some community event or closed up in their houses