Chosen To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “Hicks was in the house?” Grayson’s brows slammed together.

  “Came in after me, I think. The same way I did,”

  Santana explained.

  Grayson thought that over, then turned to Johnson. “Someone’s checking the tracks outside?”

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  She nodded. “Slatkin’s taking measurements, too.” Mikhail Slatkin was another crime scene tech. Still disgruntled, Spitzer narrowed her eyes at Santana. “We’ve got dogs on the way. They’ll be all over you.”

  He half-smiled and said nothing.

  Alvarez had a mental “ping” and looked Santana over even more closely. “That’s right. You’re some kind of animal whisperer, aren’t you?”

  “I work with dogs, yeah, and I’ve got mine in the truck. He could track your guy. Get a head start.”

  “The dogs will be here in five minutes.” She wasn’t giving Santana an inch and Alvarez noticed the blood on his hands again.

  “Anyone take samples?”

  “Done,” Johnson said.

  Santana added, “The blood belongs to Long.”

  “From when you were trying to save him,” Alvarez clarified. His eyes glittered. “That’s right, Detective.”

  As the tech took the sample of his blood away, Santana gave a concise rendition of how he’d spent the last hour and a half, first at the sheriff’s office, then driving here to find Brady Long dying just before Ivor Hicks walked in.

  “That gibes with what Hicks is saying,” Spitzer admitted, though she was still angry that Santana had shown her up to her boss.

  “Except I didn’t see any Yeti or Reptilian general or anything out of the ordinary. Just the tracks and open door,” Nate said calmly.

  At that moment Bellasario, the deputy coroner, arrived. She was tall, nearly five-ten, with brown hair scraped away from her face and pulled into a thick,

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  short ponytail. She dropped a body bag in the hallway, then worked efficiently, examining Brady Long carefully and scowling at the size of the wound.

  “Someone wasn’t taking any chances that he would pull through.”

  “Then why not shoot him in the head?” Grayson said. “Or a second time?”

  “Because the killer wanted him to suffer.” Santana offered up his opinion flatly, as if it were a fact.

  Grayson’s eyes narrowed on Santana, studying him. “You have any idea about next of kin? Brady wasn’t married, was he? Kids?”

  “No kids that I know of. Married a couple of times but divorced the last I heard. Engaged to some model, but I didn’t hear they ever tied the knot. But then,” he said, his lips twisting a bit,

  “Long and I weren’t exactly tight.”

  The sheriff scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, so no wives or kids. But the old man—Hubert—he’s still with us?”

  “Barely, I think, but I never heard he died. Brady had him in a nursing home, I think in Denver. But I could be wrong.”

  “What about siblings?” Alvarez asked.

  “He’s got a sister. Padgett.” Santana glanced out the window, but Alvarez guessed he wasn’t seeing the snow falling over the trees and vehicles parked in front of the house. It seemed as if he were looking inward. “I knew Padgett when we were kids, she’s a little younger than Brady. A year? Maybe two, I can’t really remember, but she’s been in some kind of care facility since the accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” Alvarez asked. “When?”

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  “Boating. Maybe fifteen years ago?” Santana frowned. “Clementine will know.”

  “What happened?” she questioned.

  It was Grayson’s grim voice that answered, “A bunch of kids were out and hit some rocks, flew out of the boat. Padgett got trapped underwater for a while.”

  “Only two people on the boat,” Santana corrected. “Padgett and Brady. He survived, ended up with some cuts and bruises, but he couldn’t get his sister out from under the wreckage.” His eyes darkened. “At least that’s the way he told it. Padgett, she never spoke again, far as I know. Again, ask Clementine. She was working for Hubert at the time. Just started, I think.”

  “So where’s Padgett’s care facility?” Selena asked. Santana shook his head. “Hell if I know. The Longs didn’t talk about her much. Figured that’s the way the family wanted it, you know? Out of sight, out of mind.”

  The deputy coroner straightened. “Okay, I’ve got all I need, you can move the body now,” Bellasario said to the sheriff. “When you’re done, we’ll haul him outta here.” Bellasario was already unzipping the body bag while an assistant rolled in a portable gurney.

  As soon as Long’s body was removed from the chair in which he died, Johnson went to work. Blood had stained the expensive chair’s seat and back, and a small hole had been torn in the oxblood leather.

  “Here we go. I want to see . . . aha . . . think I found it.” She was digging at the back of the chair. “Our boy was shot clean through. Entry wound in his chest, and exit a little lower, near his spine, like the killer

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  was standing over him.” Using a knife, she urged the bullet from the padding. “Come to Mama,” she said, biting her lower lip. With her gloved fingers, she removed what appeared to be a bullet from the leather.

  “This,” she held up the bullet for inspection, “probably would have blown through the chair, too, maybe lodged in the floor of the baseboard if it hadn’t been for the steel reinforcement in the back cushion.”

  She eyed the bullet critically and her eyebrows drew into a concerned knot. “Seen this before. .30 caliber.”

  Alvarez’s heart went stone cold.

  “.30 at close range.” The sheriff was eyeing the slug as Johnson dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. “Lotta firepower for a close-up job.”

  “And just like the bullets that tore holes in the tires of Star-Crossed’s victim’s vehicles.” Alvarez’s words seemed to hang in the air, hollow and cold. She didn’t want to believe it. This brazen murder of one of the richest men in the country couldn’t be related to the other homicides. And yet . . . Fear and incomprehension crawled through her.

  “Star-Crossed?” Santana’s jaw had tightened.

  “Hey, get him out of here,” Grayson said to Spitzer.

  “Yes, sir.” She snapped to attention.

  Santana was having none of it. “The same son of a bitch who’s got Regan?”

  The sheriff glared at Santana. “We don’t know where Detective Pescoli is.”

  “Don’t give me the company line, Grayson!” He was agitated now. Cords on the back of his neck strident, his lips blade thin, he looked as if he were trying, and failing, to rein in his temper. “Everyone in this room, hell, in this whole damned house knows that her Jeep was shot and wrecked and she’s miss-196 Lisa Jackson

  ing. Now you’re telling me that the same freak who’s done who the hell knows what to her has walked in here and killed Long?”

  Grayson barely held on to his temper. “Just because it’s the same caliber bullet doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  Santana’s eyes snapped fire. “Like hell.”

  “Let’s go!” Spitzer was trying to grab Santana’s arm and shepherd him out the door, but he yanked himself free of her grasp.

  “Find her,” he rasped to Grayson, pointing a long, bloody finger at the sheriff. “You damned well find her.”

  “We will.” Grayson’s voice was cold steel.

  “I mean, before it’s too late and some idiot like Ivor runs across her out in the woods, dead and naked against a goddamned tree!” He brushed off Spitzer’s repeated attempts to corral him, then turned and headed out the back door. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw set, his boot heels ringing with determination.

  Alvarez watched him go. No way was Santana going to sit tight and let the professionals do their jobs. She’d seen his rock-s
olid conviction to do things his own way in the angle of his chin, the glitter in his eyes, and the determination that flattened his lips over his teeth.

  The loner was going to try and take justice into his own hands.

  “He’s a rogue,” she said just as Grayson’s cell rang, and he nodded as he took the call. She walked to the window and watched Santana climbing into the truck with the dog. If the rifle used this morning at his employer’s house was the same as the one

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  that had shot out the tire of Pescoli’s Jeep, then Santana was in the thick of it. His boss. His girlfriend. But you saw how upset he was about Pescoli. He’s not the killer.

  “What . . . Who? . . . Yeah, but wait. I’ll send Alvarez down, she can bring ’em up . . . What? Yeah, I know. Tell the press, I’ll give them a statement today, at the department . . . Hell, no, not now. I’ve got a meeting at four with the task force. After that. Closer to six. Maybe later. Whenever I’m done.” He snapped the phone off before whoever was on the other end of the connection could ask anything else, then he met the questions in Alvarez’s eyes.

  “That was Connors at the gate. He’s got Clementine and her son freaking out, demanding to be let in. The television cameras are rolling, so let’s bring

  ’em up.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Are you sure she’s unaware of what we’re saying?”

  the African-American psychologist asked Martha, the big floor nurse who had been at Mountain View for as long as Padgett could remember.

  “Near comatose,” was the response. Martha had never been long on insight, just rolled in and did her job before clocking out, always leaving early. Jalicia Ramsby PhD frowned at the response. Well, really, it wasn’t very P.C. How did the fat slob of a nurse know anything about her? Padgett wondered, as she sat in the chair she’d claimed years before and rocked gently. Ostensibly she was staring out at the gray afternoon, her mind as blank as 198

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  Martha believed, but she could see them behind her. They appeared ghostlike and washed out, their cellophane images seeming to float over the darkening landscape of lawns, hedges, and leafless trees in the grounds that surrounded Mountain View. Slowly fingering the rosary on her lap, as if she were praying, Padgett told herself she would have to be wary of the newcomer. Dr. Ramsby was slim, straightforward, and sharp, with close-cropped hair, coffee-colored skin, and big eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

  Head turned toward the window, Padgett moved her lips, as if in prayer, and kept her eyes blank, for she was certain Ramsby was watching her image in the glass, just as she was watching the psychologists. Oh what a devious game we play, Don’t we, Doctor? she thought but kept mouthing the familiar prayer.

  “Our Father who art in heaven . . .” No sound escaped her lips and she noticed, in the sheer pane, Ramsby’s arched eyebrows come together, small lines radiating over her nose, red-tinted lips pursed in disbelief.

  Why? Why didn’t this woman trust the diagnosis that had been with Padgett ever since she’d been helped over the threshold of this ancient and revered hospital?

  Some of the best psychologists and psychiatrists had examined her. She remembered, though, the last one to show any true interest in her had been Dr. Maxwell, and his interest had dwindled quickly years before.

  So why this new interloper?

  Why now, when it was most important that she seem as dull as the bread pudding the unimaginative cooks served each Wednesday?

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  Change nothing. Remain the same. No one will ever know.

  “Padgett?” she heard, her name said a little more loudly, the black doctor trying to get her attention. Padgett never stopped rubbing the beads or moving her lips. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nate Santana had never been one to sit idle. So today, while the police were swarming all over the main house, he was going to track down the bastard who’d shot Brady Long. Before the damned snowstorm covered the killer’s tracks. So thinking about it, he checked on the stock, then saddled Scout, a sturdy, paint gelding with pale blue eyes and a marking on his flank that looked like the state of Alaska. Strapping a pack and a bedroll behind the saddle, he then grabbed his Winchester and headed out. There was no reason to bring Nakita, though the dog whined miserably as he left; but the snow was deep and drifting and until he needed the husky’s keen nose, he’d follow the tracks himself on horseback.

  He cut across the back of the property, on a path that should intersect the boot prints he’d seen earlier. He’d spied the direction they were headed, and if Ivor’s Yeti was the killer and not a hallucina-

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  tion, then the tracks should head due west, into the foothills and, he suspected, intersect with an old logging road that ran between Long’s acres and those of the federal government.

  As the gelding plodded through the drifts, Santana kept his eyes on the frigid landscape, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

  Why had someone killed Brady Long? Not that the man didn’t have his share of enemies, but why now? In the middle of the worst winter in Montana’s history? And who would know Long was arriving? His current girlfriend, that model, Maya something-or-other? Someone he worked with? Friends he planned to meet? Or just Clementine? Then there was the deeper question. The one that tore at his soul. Was Brady Long’s murder connected to Regan Pescoli’s disappearance and all the other killings committed by the Star-Crossed Killer? A coincidence?

  Or cold, hard truth?

  There hadn’t been a murder in these parts since Calvin O’Dell’s wife shot him dead for sleeping with her grown daughter, and that had happened five or six years before; Santana hadn’t even been in Grizzly Falls when the scandalous events had unfolded. But since then, no homicides. Not even gangs or drug busts or hunting accidents—nothing in Pinewood County. Now, not only had Star-Crossed decided to make the area his private playground, but a copycat had followed in his footsteps. Now, if Brady Long’s killer proved to be someone else, then there would suddenly be three murderers on the prowl. Awfully unlikely for these parts, but who knew? Brady’s could be a murder for hire. He wanted to believe it. The man had made 202

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  more than his share of enemies, but his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that the same caliber weapon used in shooting out the tires of StarCrossed’s victims’ vehicles had been used on Brady Long.

  But Star-Crossed doesn’t kill with a firearm. He leaves his prey to die in the wilderness. This isn’t really Star-Crossed’s M.O.

  Nate tugged gently on the reins, guiding Scout across a meandering creek that wound through an outcropping of boulders and a few scraggly pines. Ice snapped under the gelding’s hooves and a bit of water ran beneath the frozen surface of the brook. He was north of the house now, far from the helicopter pad, the snow falling around him, the wind a brittle reminder that winter had settled in hard. Eyeing the ground, he searched for prints, any kind of depression in the white blanket that covered the ground.

  “Where did you go, you son of a bitch?” he wondered aloud, his breath a cloud as he searched for any trace of the cold-blooded killer.

  What if this maniac has Regan? The back of his neck tightened at the thought and his eyes thinned as he scoured the ground. I’ll kill him, he thought, I’ll kill the bastard and won’t think twice.

  He felt as if steel bands had been coiled around his chest and they were growing tighter with each breath, with the knowledge that the woman he loved was in the madman’s clutches. The woman you love, think about it, Santana. That’s a big leap from good times, hot sex, and no strings attached. He’d met Pescoli in a bar.

  Hadn’t known she was a cop.

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  Hit on her.

  She, sipping whiskey, had been amused, one dark red eyebrow arching in intere
st.

  “You want to buy me a drink?” she’d asked, shaking her head, burnished curls shining in the soft lighting of the Spot Tavern.

  “Maybe,” he’d responded and signaled to the bartender, who slid a second short glass of Jack Daniel’s to clink against her first.

  “That was easy,” she said.

  “Easy’s my middle name.”

  “I doubt it.” He’d smiled at her then and she’d returned the favor.

  “What’s your sign?”

  “Oh, come on,” he said, momentarily disappointed.

  “The sign that you’re wearing though you don’t know it. DUI? Trespass? Failure to appear? Those are the signs I’m seeing.”

  “What?”

  She gave him the once-over, her eyes moving from his face, down the length of him and back up again. In a quick scan she’d taken in his muddy boots, faded Levi’s, clean but well-worn work shirt, and three days’ growth of beard. “It takes more than a shot of Jack for me to dismiss the charges.”

  She finished her drink, set the glass on the table, and eyed the second shot of whiskey. Then her lips slid into that sexy smile that took his breath away.

  “But just so you know, I don’t roll that way. No bribes. You’ll just have to take your chances with the judge.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “You think I’m trying to bribe you?” he said, just 204

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  as it was beginning to dawn on him that she was a cop. A keep-your-distance, avoid-at-all-costs cop.

  “You’re with the police?”

  Her grin widened and she glanced at the barkeep. “Hey, Nadine, we got ourselves a Rhodes Scholar here. Buy the man a drink. On me.”

  Nadine’s peach-colored lips tried, and failed, to hide a smile as she poured another and placed it on the bar. He’d raised his glass and touched the rim of hers. “Nate Santana.”

  Her eyebrows tugged together a bit, as if she’d heard the name, then she said, “Regan Pescoli. That’s Detective Pescoli to you.”