The Dead Chill

by Linda Berry

  She kept moving, negotiating the slippery, uneven ground. The forest finally opened up to the road and ice crackled underfoot where the plow had packed down the snow. The prints of the burglars ended at wide tire tracks made by a truck. The tracks veered onto the road and merged with other tracks. The snow, falling in big loose flakes, had already softened the delineation of the tread marks. Nothing here.

  She went back through the trees and circled the house, looking for the second set of boot prints. On the eastern side of the yard, she saw a pattern of shallow indentations that led to the back door; boot prints filled with snow. She followed them back through the woods, ending on the road forty feet north from where the truck had been parked. The prints hugged the road for a hundred feet, crossed over, and became obscured by tire tracks.

  This told her the two suspects had indeed arrived separately. The first arrived by foot, suggesting he lived in the village.

  After brushing snow off her shoulders, Sidney stepped back into the house and removed her jacket and boots. Ignoring the throbbing in her head, she grabbed a pair of shoe covers from the crime kit and slipped them on, then pulled on vinyl gloves.

  She found Amanda dusting for fingerprints in the living room.

  Aside from the mess on the floor, the room had a tidy, well-lived-in look. The tan leather couch and lounge chair were worn, the tables and lamps looked like garage sale relics, as did the prints on the wall and the knickknacks lining the fireplace mantle. Clearly, Nikah and Lancer weren’t living high on the hog. “What were the burglars looking for that had any value?” Sidney asked. “The big screen TV is still here. Drugs are a possibility. Find anything drug related?”

  Amanda was bending over the doorknob of the front door, lifting a fingerprint. “No. The living room looks clean. No drug paraphernalia, no blood, no appearance of a struggle. This crap on the floor came from the bookcase. Just paperbacks and magazines.”

  “What about a phone?”

  “Nope. The second bedroom was used as an office. I saw a laptop and charger in there, but no phone or other small devices.”

  “I’ll go pilfer through the master bedroom. Maybe her phone will turn up,” Sidney said.

  “Be forewarned. It’s a mess. Careful with the sheets. Could have fluids. Hair. The stuff of a lab tech’s dreams,” Amanda said, a smile in her tone.

  Not the stuff of Sidney’s dreams. “I’ll let you bag those.”

  “Yippie.”

  Sidney switched on the glaring overhead light in the master. Mess was an understatement. More like the aftermath of a tornado. An extensive search had been interrupted. The bedcovers were stripped off, mattress askew, clothes from the dresser and closet strewn over the floor.

  Three photos in gilt frames on the dresser caught her attention. One showed an attractive gray-haired couple sitting at an outdoor table, holding up wine glasses, grinning at the camera. From the strong family resemblance, Sidney knew they were Nikah’s parents. Two people in their prime, enjoying life to the fullest, killed by a drunk driver. Senseless tragedy. The second photo showed Lancer standing on the shore of a lake, shirtless, body bronzed and muscled, holding up a sizable trout. He was a handsome white man with hazel eyes, sandy hair, and a contagious smile. The last photo showed Nikah and Lancer posing at someone’s wedding, beaming, eyes sparkling. He wore a gray western-cut suit with a turquoise bolo tie. She looked like an Indian princess in a fringed leather dress with beaded flowers along the bodice. White feathers adorned her long, black hair. Displayed in the privacy of her bedroom, these were obviously cherished photos.

  The closet held Nikah’s clothes, shoes and handbags. No expensive designer brands. Garments belonging to Lancer were shoved to one side. Several pairs of cowboy boots lined the floor and a few ball caps were stacked on one of the shelves. The couple lived apart, yet Lancer had not removed himself entirely from her life. It appeared Nikah still loved her boyfriend.

  Sidney began her search where the burglars left off, looking behind framed prints on the wall, pulling out drawers and searching underneath for taped envelopes. She searched the pockets of every garment, the inside of shoes, the contents of handbags. A few storage boxes on the upper shelf were crammed with old letters, photos, and other mementos from Nikah’s short life. Sidney found nothing of consequence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CARTING THREE PASSENGERS, Darnell parked the Dodge Ram truck in the ice-slicked lot of Wild Horse Saloon—a wood-shingled building with a long, covered porch and pulsing neon signs in the windows advertising beer. The weathered sign featured the cartoon head of a smiling horse with big teeth and one eye closed in a wink. Selena heard rock music pulsing through the walls as they piled out of the truck. Four men in thick coats huddled at one end of the porch, smoking. Their curious glances turned into arrogant stares when they spotted the police vehicle and Darnell’s uniform.

  “Let’s have a quick word with these guys,” Darnell said to Tommy.

  “Sure,” Tommy said.

  “Selena and I will scout out the inside,” Granger said.

  The music grew piercingly loud when Granger opened the door, but instead of entering, Selena held back. She didn’t like the hostile stare on the face of one of the men. Darnell—a clean cut black man with a lean build, two-years on the force, father of two toddlers—had never been placed in a situation where he had to discharge his duty weapon. He was barely out of rookie phase. That gave her cause for concern.

  Granger let the door swing shut, also watching the group of men, his brow creasing.

  Not one to be intimidated, Darnell shot the men a confident smile. “Evening, guys.”

  Caught off guard by his friendliness, one man returned a half-smile. Two others kept blank stares. The fourth man, towering and powerfully built, glowered.

  “Hey, Fitch,” Tommy addressed the big man. “How goes it?”

  The big man weaved to and fro, a menacing glare in his dark hooded eyes. “You love cops so much, Tommy, why don’t you go drink in town?”

  “This is Officer Wood,” Tommy said, a warning in his tone. “He’s here because he needs our help.”

  “Help to throw our asses in jail,” Fitch sneered. “This asshole busted me last year. I spent two weeks in a cage.”

  To his credit, Darnell kept his cool and responded in a cordial tone. “Maybe all cops look the same to you, Fitch, but I remember everyone I’ve arrested. You’re not one of them. Where’d you get busted?”

  “In fucking Jackson.”

  “I’m not with the Jackson Department.”

  His lips formed a harsh line. “You’re still a fucking pig.”

  “Sir, you’ve had a lot to drink,” Darnell said, his tone shifting from friendly to forceful. “It’s time for you to leave. As in, go home.”

  “You kicking me out?” There was a dangerous note in the big man’s tone. He took a step toward Darnell, his huge hands balling into fists. As brawny as a linebacker, he loomed over the young officer by a foot and could no doubt floor him with a single blow. “This is my village, man. It’s you who needs to leave.”

  Selena sucked in a sharp breath, expecting violence to erupt.

  “You heard Officer Wood. Time to go,” Granger said with steel in his tone, joining Darnell.

  “He’s a cop, too,” one of Fitch’s friends said. He was a short, weathered man with a prominent nose and a knit cap pulled down to his eyelids. “You better chill, man.”

  “Listen to your friend,” Darnell said. “Walk away. Right now. Sleep in your own bed tonight.”

  Fitch sneered, but the added muscle seemed to thwart him. His eyes clouded, as though his brain was struggling to comprehend the situation. A glimmer of realization pierced his soggy brain. He blinked. His fists slowly unclenched and he took a few steps backwards, staggering, grabbing the post to steady his balance.

  His buddies, watching with rapt attention, stepped away from him, unwilling to associate with his malignant behavior.

  “Fuck you gu
ys,” Fitch snarled. He belched, stumbled off the porch and fell flat on his ass, then got shakily to his feet with the grace of a walrus, and lurched across the lot toward the road.

  “What’s Fitch last name?” Darnell asked, pulling out his notebook and pen.

  Two of the men shrugged, faces blank. One had a gaunt face, thick glasses, and an overbite. The other was round-faced and florid. Mismatched bookends, and clueless, Selena thought, like the Bobbsey Twins.

  “Drako. Fitch Drako,” the short, weathered man said. “He’s an okay guy. Army vet.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “PTSD. Hardly ever leaves his house.” He tossed his cigarette into a snowdrift. “I’m Little Joe. What did you need help with?”

  “We’re investigating the death of one of your neighbors,” Darnell said.

  The three men gathered closer, curiosity raw on their faces.

  “Who died?” Little Joe asked.

  “Nikah Tamanos.”

  For several moments the men stood frozen, mouths open, eyes wide.

  “We found her body in Whilamut Creek near the bridge a few hours ago.”

  “Up at the bridge? What the hell?” Little Joe said.

  “When was the last time any of you saw her?”

  The Bobbsey Twins shrugged, seemingly their fall back response to any question fielded by a cop.

  “She was at the school three days ago when I dropped off my grandson,” Little Joe said. “She reads…” He shook his head, looking a bit dazed. “She used to read to the first graders on Friday mornings.” He gave Darnell a hard look. “Why would she be up at the creek in this fucking weather?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. We’re viewing her death as suspicious.”

  “Suspicious? You mean she was murdered?”

  “We believe so,” Darnell said. He waited a few moments for the three men to process. “Do you know anyone she was having a problem with?”

  The Bobbsey Twins shrugged, their faces revealing zilch.

  “No,” Little Joe said. “Everyone loved Nikah…except…” His voice trailed off.

  “Except who?” Darnell asked.

  “That dipshit boyfriend of hers,” he said. “Nasty drunk. Temper. He put in a lot of hours here.” Little Joe nodded toward the saloon. “Got kicked out a few times. Got kicked out of the village, too, for hitting Nikah.”

  “When was this?”

  Little Joe squinted his eyes, thinking. “Couple months back.”

  “His name?”

  “Lancer Richards. White man. Roofer.”

  Darnell scribbled notes. “Have you seen him or his truck in the village since he got kicked out?”

  The man scratched his jaw. “Can’t say that I have.”

  The skinny half of the Bobbsey Twins was shifting from one foot to the other. He either had to pee or he was dying to divulge information.

  “Got something to add?”

  Still standing by the door, Selena started to shiver. It was darn cold and getting colder. Seeing that Darnell had things under control, Granger returned to her side. “Let’s go in.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and opened the door. Immediately, the driving force of rock music assaulted them. A hardworking band—a male drummer, two male guitarists, and a female vocalist—occupied the cramped stage, bodies thrashing. The singer spewed hoarse lyrics while whipping her hair and jumping around in an aerobic frenzy. All four wore tattered jeans and damp T-shirts. Every inch of exposed skin glistened with sweat.

  A few tables were occupied by fans bobbing their heads, and on the other side of the room, a bartender worked a counter lined with bodies.

  Granger ushered her to empty stools in the middle of the bar. He caught the bartender’s eye and held up two fingers followed by a C sign. The barkeep nodded and grinned, obviously recognizing him and his sign language. Several people greeted Granger with waves and smiles along the bar.

  “Mr. Popularity,” Selena said.

  “Natural charm.” He smiled and leaned close enough to be heard above the music. “Let’s look the part of a couple.”

  She caught the scent of his musky aftershave. Not too hard an act to play. She nodded, smiling into his blue eyes. He planted a soft kiss on her mouth. Fleeting, but thrilling.

  Selena caught her reflection through the bottles on the wall and was surprised by her calm appearance, if a little flushed from Granger’s kiss, thanks to Tommy’s tea and Granger’s presence. Swiveling in her seat, she checked out the place more thoroughly: scarred wooden floor, posters of wild horses on the walls, young patrons dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Millennial night. At twenty-eight and twenty-nine, she and Granger fit right in, barely. Several people shot her furtive glances, making her acutely aware that she and Granger were the only white faces in the room. No chance of blending in with her blonde hair and light green eyes. She focused on the band and the singer’s lyrics.

  Domination no more!

  Speak out!

  Fight back.

  Take back our land!

  Take back our culture!

  Domination no more!

  Granger enthusiastically nodded his head to the music, or grating noise, in her opinion. He’d always listened to mellow country when they were together: Little Big Town, Lady Antebellum, old Eagles tunes. He was doing a great job of acting, or else he was an avid hard rock fan coming out of the closet.

  “Great band,” he yelled. “Tomahawks. Play here every Sunday night.”

  Okay, so he was the later. Good to know these details when in an intimate relationship with a man. Selena realized with a start that she had just imagined Granger as a romantic partner. Witnessing Granger’s measured response to a crisis had triggered a shift in her perception. Her lingering attachment to her ex, and her paralyzing fear of failing at love again, had kept her from taking the next step, though she desperately wanted to. Selena took in Granger’s handsome profile, his strong body relaxed next to hers, his knee grazing her thigh, and she was flushed with warm affection.

  He met her gaze. She made a beckoning motion with her finger. He leaned closer, and she kissed him on the mouth. Gently. He didn’t pull away. His tongue parted her lips and their first real kiss got a little steamy. A zing of intense pleasure shot along her nerve endings. When she pulled away, she saw raw emotion on his face and knew hers reflected the same. This wasn’t acting.

  Someone approached the bar and jostled her shoulder, snapping her back to reality.

  Granger cleared his throat and looked away. She refocused her attention, reminding herself that they were here to work. No more distractions.

  To Selena’s relief, the ear-piercing vocals ended and the band announced they were taking a break. The sudden silence was imbued with the soft murmur of voices and the clink of glasses. The lead singer wiped her face and arms with a towel and descended into the audience and someone handed her a drink.

  “Hey Granger,” the bartender said, setting down two bottles of Corona, two chilled mugs, and a bowl of mixed nuts. He was twenty-something, clean-shaven, with short, spiky hair and a diamond stud in one ear. Turquoise and silver bands glimmered on both wrists. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Selena, meet Kato,” Granger said.

  She and Kato exchanged smiles.

  “You’re the first date he’s ever brought in here,” Kato said. “Someone finally whittling you down, big guy?”

  Granger winked at Selena.

  “What’s up?” Kato said. “You on the job? I know you didn’t brave these icy back roads for music and beer.”

  Granger blew out a breath. “Selena and I were out riding this afternoon by the bridge on Whilamut Creek. We found a body.”

  “A body? Who died?” Kato said loudly, above the din of noise. People sitting close by turned their heads.

  “Nikah Tamanos.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Nikah’s dead?” Kato looked as though he’d been punched in the gut.

  “I’m afraid so.”
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  “What happened?” Kato asked when he found his voice.

  “Her body was in the creek. Suspicious death.”

  “Nikah was murdered?” another man asked.

  “Yes,” Granger said.

  “Oh my God! Nikah’s been murdered,” a young woman screamed, turning to everyone in the bar.

  No one moved. Stunned silence. The oxygen had been sucked from the room. People left their seats and closed in around the bar.

  “Nikah’s dead?” Another woman’s shrill voice shattered the silence. “No!”

  Selena peered into the crowd. It was the singer in the band, her face distorted with grief, dark eyes brimming with tears

  Granger turned in his seat as the crowd cleared a pathway for her. She was around twenty-seven, small-boned, heavily made up, eyes ringed with black liner, mouth painted crimson. Mascara started running down her cheeks. “What happened?”

  Granger said gently. “We’re just starting our investigation.”

  “You’re sure it’s Nikah?”

  He nodded. “Tommy identified her.”

  The woman pressed a hand to her mouth and looked as though she might be sick.

  “Sunnovabitch! I don’t believe it. Who would kill Nikah?” This from the distressed drummer who also came forward, sporting a Mohican haircut, tinted red. He was a thin, wiry, young man in his late teens.

  “I knew something was wrong when she didn’t show up here tonight,” the singer said in a choking voice. “She didn’t answer her phone all weekend.”

  The drummer wrapped an arm around her and she pressed her tear-stained face into his shoulder.

  People peppered Granger with questions, speaking over one another, and it was hard to make sense of anything above the clamor.

  “She was in the creek?”

  “Someone drowned her?”

  “How do you know it was murder?”

  Selena silently observed, studying expressions and body language—looking for what, she didn’t know. Two Creeks was a small community. These people grew up together and they had a strong connection to Nikah. Everyone looked profoundly grieved by her death. The anger, fear, and need for answers was palpable.