1
The air stirred, and snow lifted from the trees and sprayed the icy surface of the lake. It was just after two AM and the temperature hovered at zero. The clouds were low in the sky, and Nicole felt their heaviness. Her shoulders shifted under their weight. Eight years in Toole County, Montana, and she still wasn’t comfortable with the building storm systems or the swift changes in weather conditions.
She listened to the wind, the groaning of the tree branches, the sharp crunch of boots through drifts, and wished it were a better night for a murder.
Snow melted and changed the composition of evidence. The wind skittered across the lake and tossed the remains of the crime scene. And the weather wasn’t their only challenge. The ME—the local family practitioner who was better suited to delivering babies and curing the common cold—had arrived an hour before and was on his knees beside the body, pulling threads from the dead girl’s hair with a pair of tweezers. His ME field guide was stuffed into a pocket of his parka, and even three years into the job, he consulted it often and openly.
Forensics had towed portable lamps through the woods and hooked them to a generator stationed in the bed of a pickup truck. Nicole stood within the halo of that light and watched the ME. His meticulous care pulled on her nerves. They’d been out of time even before the investigation began, and MacAulay carried out his duties with the sedate pace of a tortoise.
She exhaled and watched her breath crystalize. She stuffed her gloved hands into her coat pockets and tipped back on the thick heels of her boots. And she stared into the shadows beyond the light. She could barely make out the pinprick of head lamps worn by her men and women as they combed the surface of the frozen lake and followed several sets of footprints over the rolling slopes and through a thin stand of trees. The body and the footprints were so far the only physical evidence of their suspect.
The weather, the distance to reasonable equipment and personnel, and the attitudes of small-town life were a source of constant frustration when there was a crime to be solved.
“Damn boonies,” she mumbled.
“I thought we were growing on you,” Doc said.
“Toole County is the best thing that ever happened to me,” she returned. And it was true. She’d needed out of Denver. Law enforcement there was polluted, her personal life even more, and the worst of it was that Jordan had started feeling the pain. At only three years of age then, he’d become anxious about Nicole’s return every evening and be reduced to fits of screaming and head banging whenever Nicole prepared him for the court-ordered visits with his father. Kids were intuitive. They felt things, knew things. And Jordan more than most. Her son was sensitive. He was a sponge for nature and nurture. The move had saved them both. “But it puts a crimp in my cape.”
MacAulay laughed. “You thought you could come in here and single-handedly wrestle crime into the dust?”
“Caped Crusaders rock, Robin.”
The doctor snorted. “Not in Toole County, Sheriff. Here it’s all about cooperation—people, weather, science. It’s a package. But you know that by now.”
She’d joined the department as a sergeant and risen quickly to undersheriff. Six years later she’d become the first female sheriff in county history. She thought her election had had a lot to do with her Big City past, which included a gold shield and several accommodations, and her skills as a communicator. Toole County was the seat of a lot of law enforcement activity. In addition to the sheriff’s department, they had the highway patrol and U.S. Border Patrol working out of their little town of Blue Mesa. With Canada serving as their northern border and three major freeways barreling through the county, it was a natural choice for command centers. And it had served Nicole well.
“I know it, but I don’t always like it,” she confirmed.
MacAulay squinted at the fiber in his tweezers and then held it up. A young forensics tech scrambled forward with a plastic evidence bag.
“Our biggest mistakes are made when we think we can do it alone.”
She wondered if the comment was a professional or personal observation. Either would apply, although she and MacAulay didn’t make it obvious. No talk, no touch on the job, and other restrictions that preserved her image as the sheriff. But it had been a long time since Nicole agreed to dinner—two weeks at least.
His tone was neutral, sounding more like advice than judgment, so it was hard to gauge his investment in the conversation. He was crouched over the girl’s body, peering closely into her eyes with a penlight, but he spared Nicole a glance. And she found a wealth of emotion in his gaze. Concern, warmth beyond the professional, and not a small amount of challenge.
She ignored it.
“I’d settle for an honest-to-God crime lab,” she returned. A full team to back her on the field. She was a quarterback who relied on her defense. MacAulay knew that.
“And a tried and true ME to run it?”
“Yes, that too.”
He stood and turned to her. His salted hair lifted in the breeze. His ears were pink. “You’re losing evidence,” he acknowledged. “Probably more than any of us have been able to gather for you.”
“You suck at the bedside etiquette, MacAulay.”
He smiled. “Just commiserating.” He nodded toward the body, a young girl, underdressed for the weather. She was slender, with hair a shade darker than coffee, and was probably thirteen or fourteen years old. Nicole didn’t recognize her, so she wasn’t local. They hadn’t received a missing child report. A lot of parents had dinner with the kids, tucked them into bed, and then hit the mountain for a little air time before turning in themselves. It was the day after Christmas, 2:00 AM, and the hotels, lodges, and resorts were packed with tourists.
“Want to know who she is?”
Always a loaded question when it came from MacAulay. Once an identity was established, the doctor referred to their victims by name. Nicole and her team had learned to harden themselves to it. MacAulay was first and foremost a physician, and a small sliver of Nicole’s heart was relieved that the doctor saw people where she and her officers saw bodies. But in cases where obtaining objectivity was difficult, such as the murder of a child, even the most experienced of them softened—and that got in the way of good police work.
“She have a wallet?”
“I’m guessing there’s a snow bunny ID card at the end of this lanyard.” He bent and tugged at a braided pale-blue string. It was tucked under the crew neck of the girl’s sweater and twisted so that the body trapped the laminated pass beneath her. Nicole stepped closer. The lanyard was complimentary and the pass doubled as a room key. With any luck, the card was still intact. “I’m ready to lift her.”
Nicole knelt beside MacAulay as he slid his hands under the girl’s shoulder and hip and rolled her. This close, the girl’s face looked almost translucent. She had the smoothest skin Nicole had ever seen and big eyes that sloped at the ends. She was Hispanic. Her cheekbones and chin were curved and full and had beamed with health a few hours before.
MacAulay held the girl’s body with one hand and turned over the slope pass with the other.
“Beatrice Esparza,” he read aloud, and held the card up for Nicole’s inspection.
The photo matched. She checked the print at the bottom, though the lanyard was familiar—all the resorts had them, each a distinctive color and style and easily recognizable on the slopes and in the bars. “The Huntington Spa.”