Afraid to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Who is this psycho?

  What the hell has he done with my son?

  This had just gotten personal. Extremely personal. As if she thought the freak could hear her, she whispered under her breath, “Get ready, you bastard, because I’m going to nail your ass and I’m going to nail it good.”

  “... and that’s all you know?” Pescoli asked hours later as she stared across the small table in the interrogation room at Ezzie Zwolski. Ezzie’s small hands were folded in her lap as she sat in a chair next to an attorney who looked as if he’d just graduated from law school. Shaved head, nervous smile, pressed suit with a shiny tie, the lawyer said little during the questioning. To Pescoli, he seemed useless.

  As for Ezzie, she was a mere mouse of a woman if one believed first impressions. Ezzie’s graying hair was pinned tightly onto her head, a ruffled blouse was buttoned primly at her neck and a brown cardigan sweater was cinched around her waist. In her late fifties, she was still petite, wore little makeup and appeared more like a fussy Sunday school teacher out of the forties than the femme fatale Len Bradshaw’s family painted her to be.

  Except for her eye glasses. The frames were stylishly sleek, thin lavender plastic that was at odds with the rest of her aging, farm-wife ensemble. And she wore a pretty good-sized diamond ring on her left hand, a little flashier than the rest of her attire. Then there were her near-perfect teeth. Again, just a little out of sync with the rest of her.

  “I’m telling you that Martin swore to me, on the family Bible no less,” she insisted now, “that poor Len’s death was an accident.”

  “Even though he’d embezzled money from the farm equipment business and had an affair with you?”

  Ezzie’s spine stiffened and her pale lips pursed ever so slightly. “Water under the bridge, Detective.”

  “It was over between you and Len?”

  “Long ago.”

  “And your husband forgave you?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, Martin forgave me.” She stared up at Pescoli with wide eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “As I said, he’s a good God-fearing man.”

  “Not a murderer.”

  “Of course not! It was a hunting accident! Why don’t you people just believe him? There’s no proof otherwise and ... from what I understand, you have a real killer on the loose.” Her little chin jutted in indignation, but still, Pescoli wasn’t buying her sudden defense of a man she’d betrayed.

  “Why didn’t you come forward before?”

  “Because, as you so aptly pointed out, I had nothing more to add. I wasn’t with Martin and Len when the accident happened. I was home canning applesauce, but I can tell you this, when Martin got home that day, he was distraught. Horribly so. He couldn’t believe that the gun had gone off and that Len had died. It tore him up inside. Still is.” She let out a long sigh and looked away, as if gathering herself.

  For what?

  “What about the money that Bradshaw embezzled?” Pescoli asked. “Did Len ever offer to pay it back?”

  “No ... I don’t think so. Martin was going to take it as a write-off somehow.” She waved her hand rapidly as if she didn’t understand all of the details and was shooing the question aside. “You can do that, I guess, over time. Like a bad debt.”

  Maybe. If you truly were a “good, God-fearing man.” Then again ...

  Pescoli asked a few more questions, didn’t learn much more and decided Ezzie was right; she did have a more pressing case. But as the petite woman left the interrogation room, her attorney on her heels, Pescoli was left with a bad taste in her mouth.

  Maybe it was the chic lavender glasses.

  Or the fact that she’d been in a bad mood since roused from Santana’s bed this morning. She’d called Jeremy and left a message that he go and let the dog out, then driven straight to the crime scene where Alvarez definitely was not her usually cool, level-headed self. Ever since spying the nipple ring, she’d flipped out. Well, maybe before that. Who wouldn’t? Pescoli would have been a basket case if a child she’d given up for adoption had suddenly come knocking on her door, then ripped her off. Weird, all that. Disturbing. But then, so was Esmeralda Zwolski.

  Bad mood aside, Pescoli sensed she couldn’t trust Esmeralda “Ezzie” Zwolski any farther than she could throw the prim little woman, sensible shoes and all.

  Still bothered by the interview, she collected her notes and recorder, then made a quick stop in the lunchroom to survey whatever of Joelle’s Christmas goodies might have been left on the tables. Nothing of interest had been left for the “weekend warriors,” as Joelle had called those who pulled Saturday and Sunday duty. Seeing nothing that appealed to her, Pescoli grabbed a cup of coffee and walked to Alvarez’s work area.

  “How’d it go?” Alvarez asked, glancing up from her desk and computer monitor. While Pescoli had been interviewing Ezzie Zwolski, Alvarez had been trying to pinpoint any connection between Lara Sue Gilfry and Lissa Parsons.

  “It went. I don’t like the wife. Ezzie. And her Caspar Milquetoast of a lawyer.”

  “Who?”

  “You never heard of someone being a ‘milquetoast’?” At the blank stare she received, Pescoli shook her head. “Old expression. Some comic strip character, I think, from a ka-billion years ago or something.” She waved the idea away. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, the guy was meek or weak as hell ... and Ezzie’s lawyer, sheesh. He didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone have graduated from law school. If you ask me, she’s involved with either Bradshaw’s death or at least the embezzling accusations.”

  “The autopsy report finally came in on him,” Alvarez said, clicking her mouse to a new screen on her computer and printing out the document. Handing the pages to Pescoli, she said, “If he was killed on purpose it was a big waste of time. A couple of his arteries were ninety percent blocked and his liver was about shot. Cirrhosis taking hold.”

  “Wouldn’t he know that?”

  “Probably ignored the symptoms. He was a bit of an alpha-male type. You know, hunter, fisherman, farmer—”

  “Tinker, tailor, soldier ... Oh, wait!” Pescoli held up a finger. “Embezzler. And murder victim.”

  “Funny.” She rolled her chair back.

  “Not too.”

  Alvarez said, “The gunshot wound, the one where the bullet blew out Len’s liver and nicked his heart? It was consistent with an accident. They re-created it in the lab and the bullet hit the dummy in just about the same spot as Zwolski’s did in Bradshaw.” She glanced up. “Even if it wasn’t an accident, it would be hard to prove otherwise. So no first degree. Murder one is out unless we find more evidence to support it.”

  Pescoli’s bad mood just got worse. “Great.”

  “Hey, it is what it is!”

  “You think? I don’t know. There’s just something about Zwolski’s wife. She’s smug. Sanctimonious.”

  “Doesn’t mean she and her husband plotted a murder.”

  “I know, but. There’s just something about it that doesn’t sit well.” She took a sip of her cooling coffee. “Not well at all.” Pointing the index finger of her cup-holding hand at Alvarez, she asked, “What about you? Find anything to tie the victims of our latest psycho together?”

  “Nothing that jumps out between these two, but it turns out that Lissa Parsons did attend the same church as Brenda Sutherland.”

  “So does Cort Brewster, our illustrious undersheriff.”

  “And boss,” Alvarez pointed out.

  “Whatever.” Thinking hard, Pescoli chewed on the rim of her paper coffee cup. “You think there’s a link?”

  “Don’t know. Brenda Sutherland was very active in the church and fund-raisers and Bible study. Volunteered all over the place and never missed a service.”

  “What about Lissa Parsons?”

  “Not so much. Even though she was a parishioner at one time, she’d quit attending eighteen months ago. Before th
at, she’d show up once or twice a month. Or maybe there would be a gap, maybe when she was out of town, I’m working on that. Then, she was back again. Until eighteen months ago. She quit going altogether.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. I thought I’d talk with her family and friends. Next of kin; her father—the mother is dead—was notified an hour ago.”

  “The press know this?” Pescoli asked, glancing out the window where the same two news vans that had shown up at the crime scene had parked in the visitor’s lot.

  “They will in an hour. Darla’s going to make a statement.”

  Darla Vale was the public information officer. She’d been with the department for a few years. Once a reporter for the Seattle Times, she’d come to Grizzly Falls when her husband, Herb, had decided to retire in Montana. She’d always joked that because of her ties to the press, she’d come from “the dark side.”

  “Good.” Alvarez said, “We’re still checking with any video cams going out of town, toward Sheldon Road, and deputies are checking with neighbors, see if they saw anything last night. Had to have happened sometime between ten, when Oliver Enstad shut off the porch light and looked outside before going to bed around eleven, and when the missus looked out the window the next morning around six. Probably around one A.M., judging from the snowfall over the tracks where the slab of ice was dragged and the amount of snow covering the statue, though it was already disturbed by the time that Mabel got her eyeful.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “Did you get a chance to find out what the two ice sculptors with rap sheets were doing?”

  “Both sleeping cozily in their beds with their wives.”

  “You believe the wives?”

  Pescoli, irritated, lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know what to believe.” The case was going sideways and fast.

  “What about the video taken of the crowd that collected at the Enstads’ place this morning?”

  “Nothing to write home about. Sage is looking it over, then enlarging pictures of the people who came gawking.” Sage Zoller was a junior deputy and smart as a whip. But she had her work cut out for her. Pescoli had already viewed the tapes and, on first glance, was unable to find anyone suspicious who was at both scenes.

  It had still been dark, but they’d taken pictures from hidden cameras of anyone who had slowed or stopped to rubberneck at the crime scene. Now Sage was comparing the people caught by the camera to the group of people who had shown up when Lara Sue Gilfry’s body had been discovered, see if there were any duplicates. They could get lucky.

  “Preliminary autopsy report’s in on Gilfry,” Alvarez said, and printed out another document. As Pescoli plucked the warm papers from the printer, Alvarez added, “There’s no tox screen yet, of course, but it looks like she died of hypothermia.”

  “That bastard froze her to death?”

  “Appears so.”

  “Son of a bitch! Maybe he took some lessons from our other friend,” Pescoli said with more than a touch of rancor. That “friend” was another homicidal maniac who had terrorized Grizzly Falls two years earlier. He’d nearly taken Pescoli’s life as well, and she couldn’t think of the psycho without a frigid blackness clawing at her soul. She skimmed the report. “No tox screen, but I guess it’s our girl, tattooed ankle, pierced tongue and all.” She glanced up. “Anything else?”

  “I talked to Slatkin earlier,” Alvarez said, mentioning one of the forensic scientists on the crime scene team. “They took impressions of the sculpture before it melted, so there are saw, chisel, pick, tong and brush and sanding marks that they’re analyzing, trying to find out where the products might have come from. We’re checking local hardware stores, art supply stores, anywhere they could have bought the items.”

  “Could be online. Or maybe he’s had them for a long time; maybe they were great-granddaddy’s.”

  “Even so ...”

  “I know. Long shot. I’m still hoping someone will get back to me from the hotels, catering companies, local artists, whoever, about anyone locally with a talent for shaving ice into something creative.”

  “What about Gordon Dobbs?” Pescoli asked. “He’s always carving something and selling it off of his front porch.”

  “He works with wood.”

  “But a crack shot,” Pescoli pointed out, knowing she was grasping at straws.

  “No one’s been shot yet. Well, besides Len Bradshaw, and he doesn’t count on this one.”

  “Guess you’re right. But I wouldn’t tell his family that.” She finished her cup and crushed it in her fingers. “They’ll go bananas.”

  Alvarez sighed. “Well, then they can join the club.”

  “Around here that’s not a big deal,” Pescoli said. “The club’s not all that damned exclusive!”

  Chapter 18

  So cold ... so very, very cold.

  Brenda couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as shiver as the water froze around her and she tried desperately to think of her children, her two boys who needed her. She couldn’t give up and let go and yet the seduction of death was oh so real in this dark, hopeless cave where the monster had stripped her naked, then subdued her with a drug he’d slipped into her vein.

  She’d called for help, she’d prayed, she’d endured the maniac’s weird ministrations, even, God help her, begging him to let her go, promising to not tell a soul, to do anything he wanted. Now as she thought of her desperation, her humiliation, she wondered if it would be best if God would take her home. The boys, they would be all right. Ray would take care of them, wouldn’t he? Maybe he’d get married again and they could have a stepmother ...

  Her mind went blank for a while as she dozed, the blackness a void for which she was grateful. Now, in that twilight between wakefulness and slumber, she didn’t understand what was happening and knew in her heart she would never. He’d not hurt her, not made a mark upon her body aside for the tiny prick of his needle.

  He’d washed her, over and over again, sluicing her with warm water that turned colder by the minute, until she’d been shivering wildly, her teeth chattering out of control, and then the beauty of nothingness when she’d lost consciousness. Oh, the serenity of blackness. As she roused, feeling the bitter cold deep in the marrow of her bones, she hoped she didn’t have to look up into his cruel eyes, didn’t want to watch him as he worked over her, didn’t want to feel his lips upon her. Nor did she have the least desire to see the various drills and picks and saws hanging on the walls of this vast cavern that was complete with a workbench, running water and electricity. The tools terrorized her, and deep in her heart, she suspected that he would use them upon her.

  Why, she didn’t understand.

  Who could?

  He thought himself some kind of artist, he’d mentioned it as well as telling her how beautiful she was, how “perfect.” Her stomach had twisted as he’d licked her navel and caressed her breast with the tip of his tongue. He’d wanted to do more to her, she’d read it in his eyes. He wanted to do all kinds of vile things to her, cruel, sadistic acts that she didn’t want to imagine.

  She’d been horrified, and had lain motionless, her muscles unable to move, her voice mute though inside she was screaming. How had she not suspected how deeply evil he was, this man she’d seen around Grizzly Falls? This married man had seemed somewhat normal, a person to whom she would cast a friendly smile when he’d come to her table at Wild Will’s, but who was, beneath his normal facade, a madman, a demon sent straight from Satan himself. She’d seen a glimpse of his dark side once when he’d thought she’d ignored him on a day that was crazy-wild at work; it hadn’t helped that the chef had messed up his order, but other than that one time ...

  She forced herself not to think of him or how helpless she was at his hand. Her mind began to wander again in the darkness, and for a second Brenda thought she heard another voice, one as frightened as her own. But of course, when she croaked out a response and waited, she heard nothing other than the beati
ng of her own heart. What she’d heard was an audio hallucination; there was no other person near enough to hear her or rescue her.

  She was doomed.

  Only Jesus could save her now.

  Brenda was sure of it.

  Her faith prevailed and so she began to pray. Silently. The familiar words coming to mind. Our Father, who art in heaven; hallowed be Thy name ...

  Though it was the weekend, the sheriff ’s department was buzzing. Not only were there the usual accidents, fights and altercations brought on by too much celebrating on Friday night, and the regular amount of thefts, but with these latest murders, the offices were busier than ever. Phones jangled, conversation hummed and, aside from Joelle’s added Christmas enthusiasm, the station was filled with weekend officers or others, like Alvarez herself, pulling overtime.

  While the press camped outside, the sheriff and undersheriff were both in their offices and, of course, Sturgis had taken up his usual spot near Grayson’s desk. Seeing the dog had reminded Alvarez of her own missing pup, not to mention the son she’d given up half a lifetime previously.

  She’d been too busy to think much about Gabriel Reeve or Roscoe.

  Now, her back beginning to ache a little from hours at her desk, Alvarez read through Lissa Parsons’s phone log one more time. A computer had compared it to the numbers in Lara Sue Gilfry’s and come up with only three matches: a clinic where Dr. Acacia Lambert practiced; Joltz, a local coffee shop; and a garage over on Seventh Street. It was all a dead end. Comparing personal computers was next on the agenda, but that was tough, as Lissa Parsons’s laptop and smartphone were still missing. They’d received records regarding her account from her server, that information requested weeks ago when she’d gone missing. Since then, there had been no activity on either her phone or computer. As for Lara Sue Gilfry, she’d used the common computer supplied by the Bull and Bear bed-and-breakfast, where she worked. Many times she hadn’t bothered to log in personally, but just checked Web sites through the inn’s account, so sorting what she’d done, as opposed to the rest of the staff or customers, had been tedious, nearly impossible. And that didn’t count the library where she was known to hang out.