Chapter 22
Brad Houzer's property lay a hundred yards ahead when Cory killed the engine, the old mining district road having wound them through towering pines and firs where patches of snow glowed white between the trees in the moonlight.
"Charming," Izzy muttered, checking her Glock.
They exited the SUV in silence, weapons drawn but held low. The December night was sharp with pine and snow, their breath clouding white in the thin mountain air. As they approached the cabin, Cory's flashlight swept across the front walkway.
He stopped short. "Watch your step." He played the beam over the path to the door. "Look at this mess."
The walkway was a disaster—weeks, maybe a month's worth of footprints compressed into an icy glaze. Brad had clearly never shoveled, just walked the same path over and over until the snow became a treacherous sheet of frozen impressions. Pine needles and dirt were embedded in the ice layers.
"Guy was too lazy to clear his walk but meticulous enough to sabotage aircraft?" Izzy observed.
"People are contradictions." Cory pointed to the virgin snow beside the path, deep and undisturbed beneath the pine branches. "Step there. Preserve any evidence in case—"
He stopped. The front door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness against the weathered wood frame.
Every cop instinct he'd developed over fifteen years started screaming. Doors didn't stand open in December in the mountains unless something was very wrong.
"Stay behind me," he murmured, raising his weapon.
"I can—"
"Please." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just this once, let me take point."
She fell in behind him without further argument, maybe sensing the tension radiating from his shoulders. He approached the door at an angle, using the frame for cover.
"Police. Brad Houzer, this is Chief Fraser. I need you to respond."
Silence except for the distant hoot of an owl.
He pushed the door wider with his boot, wincing at the horror-movie creak. "Hope Landing Police. Anyone inside needs to respond now."
Nothing but the hum of a refrigerator and the tick of a wood stove cooling.
Then the smell hit him.
Death had a particular odor—sweet and wrong, unmistakable once you'd encountered it. His stomach clenched as he swept his flashlight across the entry, finding a light switch.
The overhead bulb revealed a living room that looked like a tornado had been through it. Pizza boxes, beer bottles, old newspapers creating a maze of garbage. A small wood stove sat cold in the corner, ash spilled on the hearth. And in the recliner facing a flickering television—
"That's Brad," Izzy confirmed quietly.
The skinny mechanic sat slumped to one side, head lolling at an unnatural angle. Empty vodka bottles surrounded his chair like fallen soldiers. A prescription bottle lay overturned on the coffee table made from a rough pine slab, white pills scattered across the stained wood.
Cory holstered his weapon and pulled on nitrile gloves from his pocket. He approached the body carefully, noting details with clinical detachment.
Caucasian male, mid-thirties, wearing the same stained coveralls from the hangar photos. No obvious signs of trauma. He pressed two fingers to Brad's neck, finding cold skin and no pulse.
"Been dead a while," he said, straightening. "Six to eight hours based on temperature and rigor."
He bowed his head. The words came quietly, naturally. "Lord, receive Brad's soul with mercy. Forgive whatever drove him to these choices. Grant peace to those he leaves behind."
He opened his eyes to find Izzy watching him, her expression unreadable. Then, surprising him, she added softly, "And help us find the truth. Amen."
"Amen," he echoed, something shifting between them in that moment.
She cleared her throat, raising her phone again. "Overdose?"
"Looks like it." He studied the scene, that cop instinct pinging like sonar. "Alcohol and pills. Classic combination."
Something nagged at him, some detail his subconscious had caught but couldn't quite surface.
He swept his light across the scene again, trying to identify the source of his unease.
The cabin's log walls were decorated with old mining tools and a few moth-eaten deer heads. Everything spoke of mountain neglect.
Something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
He pulled out his phone to call it in, watching Izzy work. She moved through the space like the operator she was—efficient, careful, documenting everything. When she crouched to photograph something under the coffee table, he saw her carefully extract a receipt with two fingers.
Their eyes met. He should stop her. Should preserve the scene exactly as found. Instead, he turned back to his phone call, giving her tacit permission to continue.
"Dispatch, this is Chief Fraser. I need units and the coroner at 1847 Forest View Road, old mining district. Deceased male."
While he handled the official procedures, part of his attention tracked Izzy. She laid the receipt on the corner of the coffee table and photographed it. Smart. Whatever she'd found might disappear once the scene became official.
"Backup's ten minutes out," he told her, disconnecting. "Coming up from town."
She nodded, then crouched down to set the slip of paper back where she found it.
Red and blue lights filtered through the pine trees outside. Backup had arrived.
"Show me what you found," he said quickly.
She pulled up the photo of the receipt, angling it so he could see. "Visa reload card. Five thousand dollars. Purchased in Reno two days ago."
"Blood money," Cory said grimly. "Payment for sabotage."
"Has to be." She pocketed her phone as doors slammed outside. "Think he felt guilty? Couldn't live with what he'd done?"
"Maybe." Cory looked at Brad's too-clean hands one more time. "Or maybe he celebrated too hard with his windfall."
The next hour passed in familiar routine. Local units secured the scene. The coroner arrived, making his initial assessment. Crime scene techs processed everything with professional efficiency.
"Textbook overdose," one tech announced, bagging the pill bottle. "Oxy and alcohol. See it all the time up here. Mountain isolation makes it worse."
"Tragic," the coroner agreed, zipping the body bag. "Young man, whole life ahead of him."
"Any signs of foul play?" Cory asked carefully.
"None obvious. We'll run a full toxicology panel, but this looks straightforward. Accidental overdose or suicide." The coroner shrugged. "These mountain cabins see too much of this. Isolation, substance abuse—bad combination."
They stayed until Brad's body was removed, until the scene was processed and sealed. Cory gave his statement, carefully omitting certain details. Breaking protocol to investigate. Finding the door open. Everything else exactly as they'd found it.
Finally, they were released. Walking back to his SUV through the deep snow they'd preserved, their footprints the only disturbance in the white expanse, Cory felt the weight of what they'd discovered.
Izzy grinned at him. "Look at you, building your own shadow investigation." But her teasing lacked its usual bite. "What's really bothering you about this?"
Cory pulled onto the narrow mountain road, headlights cutting through the darkness between the pines. "Brad was an amateur. Nervous at the hangar, sloppy with the sabotage at first. But my guess is he was a champ when it came to self-medication.”
“Addicts od all the time.”
“Agreed. This timing is way too coincidental, though."
"MedFlight?"
"Maybe. Or someone else using MedFlight as cover."
She eyed her phone. "The receipt’s a Visa reload from a Reno convenience store. Untraceable unless—"
"Unless they have cameras." Izzy was already typing on her phone. "I'll have Zara pull footage tomorrow. See who bought a five-thousand-dollar card."
"Assuming they were stupid enough to go somewhere with cameras."
"Everyone makes mistakes." She studied his profile in the dashboard light.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring enough to break your precious rules." Her voice went soft. "For trusting your instincts even when they're telling you to do something that goes against everything you believe in."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so he focused on driving.
Brad Houzer was dead, taking his secrets with him. But whoever paid him was still out there. Still hunting.