by Lisa Jackson
Turning her attention away from Brewster’s photo display, Pescoli sat in one of the chairs. Though she wasn’t comfortable seated at Brewster’s desk, at least he hadn’t already claimed Grayson’s office; that would have been too much for Pescoli and a lot of the other officers.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Brewster got right to the point. “You said yesterday you went up to Grayson’s place to talk to him.”
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t say why.”
“I know.”
Placing his elbows on his desk, he tented his hands. “So what was it about, Pescoli, and don’t tell me again that it doesn’t matter, because everything does in this case. We’re trying to track down the person who put Grayson in the hospital.”
“Yeah, I know . . .” She was reticent to confide in Brewster. Not only had she never really trusted him, even though he’d been an exemplary cop for a solid twenty years or more, but now that Grayson was injured, she didn’t want to stop investigating his attack, didn’t want to give Brewster even the slightest whiff of a notion that she might want to quit the department. But she couldn’t lie; this was an investigation. So she hedged.
“A couple of reasons,” she said, feeling Heidi’s eyes staring down at her from her school picture. “First, I wanted to make sure that I was solidly back with Alvarez again. Gage and I, it was all right, but with Alvarez back from her injury, I needed to know that we were reassigned. Permanently.”
He frowned a little, as if he smelled BS. “You said a couple.”
“I was just going to ask him if he wanted to join my family for dinner. He’s single now, again, and I thought he might like to come over.”
“You didn’t want to call?”
“No.”
Brewster stared at her a second. “So on Christmas morning, early Christmas morning, you go busting up there just in time to see him being hit by a sniper’s bullet?”
She met Brewster’s disbelieving stare. “What’re you saying here?” She climbed to her feet and leaned over the broad expanse of his desk. “That I knew something was going down? That I was . . . what? A part of it?” she asked, horrified and angry as hell.
“I’m just asking questions, Regan, the same questions you would be asking if the situation were reversed.” He arched an eyebrow, encouraging her to deny what they both knew to be true.
“Okay, you’re right . . . I’m sorry,” she said, half choking on the apology. Brewster was a decent enough cop and now, whether she liked it or not, he was her boss. At least temporarily.
“You have a problem working with Gage?”
“No.” She waved off the idea. “It’s just that he’s the chief criminal detective and it makes it a little stiff. He’s good, don’t get me wrong, but he and I don’t click quite the same way I do with Alvarez. Besides, he has more important things to do.”
“Like pushing paper?”
“Like organizing the cases and overseeing what’s happening, making sure everyone is doing his or her job. He doesn’t have time to be running around investigating with me.”
“We’re down people right now. No money in the budget to hire more.”
“Alvarez is back.”
“Yeah, fine.” He leaned back in his chair again and took a second to look out the window to the gray day beyond. “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ve got too much to do.” His face hardened as he turned his attention back to the situation at hand. “Any headway on suspects?”
“Just the usuals; the cons who are back on the street. So far they’ve all alibied up.”
“Family?”
“Haven’t really sorted all that out yet.”
“Incestuous, isn’t it? Brothers marrying sisters and whatnot.”
“No one with a clear motive aside from the first ex-wife, Cara. She stands to gain, big time. But I don’t see her as a murderer with an assault rifle.”
“Hired assassin?”
Regan shook her head; she’d already considered the money angle and discarded it.
“Double-check. Not just the ex-wife who’s inheriting, but the second one who might just hold a grudge.”
“We’re on it.”
“And don’t forget Grayson’s sister-in-law and his brothers and any other shirttail cousin, uncle, or aunt who might hold a grudge.”
Did he think she was a moron? “Of course, as well as any political enemies he may have picked up along the way.”
Brewster made a sound in his throat that could have meant anything. “This is Grizzly Falls, Montana, not Las Vegas or Chicago or New York, but, yeah, look into that angle as well.” He stood, signifying the meeting was over. “Let me know what the ex-wife has to say, that could be interesting.”
For once, Pescoli agreed. “Alvarez and I are going to see her in an hour.”
“Good.”
He appeared about to dismiss her, so she asked, “What about Judge Samuels-Piquard? I heard she’s gone missing.”
“Yeah.” He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and frowned. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve got people checking, working with the sheriff’s department in the next county as her cabin’s so close to the county line, just in case. Let’s hope it’s all a mistake and she turns up. Soon.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.” He was already turning away, his cell phone ringing, the familiar notes of the James Bond theme song. He snorted and said, “My oldest daughter did it behind my back.”
As she left, Pescoli had the uneasy suspicion that Brewster might just be human after all, a theory she hadn’t subscribed to in the past. However, most of her jaded opinions of the undersheriff were because of Heidi and her relationship with Jeremy. Maybe Brewster was just particularly touchy when it came to his youngest daughter, maybe she was his blind spot or Achilles’ heel or whatever. There was a chance, she thought, skirting Joelle who, carrying several platters covered in plastic wrap, was quickly marching down the hallway toward the lunchroom, that Brewster wasn’t the demon she’d always thought he was. But it was a small chance. A very small chance.
Chapter 11
Alvarez got nothing off Grayson’s phone but a bad case of regret. Though none of the received or outgoing calls provided her with information she found helpful, the list of photographs she viewed on the phone’s small screen gave her a deeper insight to the man. He was in a few of the shots, of course, but there were dozens of pictures of his nieces, Hattie’s twins, and a few of Hattie herself, a couple of photos of his brothers on their ranch, and too many shots to count of his dog: Sturgis sniffing at a woodpile, or splashing across a creek, or curled up by the fire, or riding in the passenger seat of Grayson’s old pickup. Picture after picture of the black Lab.
As she scrolled through his photo list, Alvarez felt like a voyeur again, as if she were treading on his personal property. Nonetheless, she kept at it, searching for clues she was certain were hidden somewhere behind the screen.
“You ready?” Pescoli asked, startling her as she studied a picture of Hattie in summer, dressed in a sundress, her two girls with her, arm in arm as they sat on a large rock somewhere in the foothills and squinted at the camera.
“To visit the wives?” She clicked off Grayson’s phone and slipped it into her pocket. She wasn’t done with it quite yet and didn’t want to leave it unattended.
“Ex-wives.”
“One of which is still in his will,” she said, rolling her chair away from the desk.
“Grayson’s probably just a busy man who never took the time to update things.”
Alvarez found her service weapon, strapped it on, then snagged her jacket from a peg near her office door. “Maybe marriage number two was rocky from the get-go. And then after the divorce, he just didn’t bother.”
“Usually when you go through the trouble of getting a divorce, you make damn sure your ex doesn’t get a dime. Especially when no kids are involved.”
“It’s a mo
ot point anyway,” Alvarez reminded her. “The sheriff’s still alive.”
“Thank God.”
They walked to Pescoli’s Jeep together, braving a blast of arctic air sweeping down from Canada.
Pescoli had just started the engine when a phone rang. “Must be yours,” Pescoli said, “not my ring tone.”
“Not mine either. Belongs to Grayson.” She was extracting the cell from her pocket and noticed the number on the screen was one of the county numbers.
She clicked on and said, “Sheriff Grayson’s phone,” she answered. “Detective Alvarez.”
“I was hopin’ someone would answer,” a gravelly male voice said. “This is Louie at Animal Control. I’ve got the sheriff’s dog.”
“You do?” Alvarez shot Pescoli a brilliant smile.
“Yeah, the black Lab. Found him off of Kordell Road, just past the Cougar Creek bridge. A woman who lives down that way called in about a stray and I picked him up myself this morning. The sheriff’s name’s on the tags and I knew he was in the hospital, but I took a chance that someone would answer his phone. How’s he doin’, by the way?”
“I think stable,” she said, mouthing to Pescoli, “Sturgis.” Pescoli gave her a relieved thumbs-up.
“Jesus, you’d think a man would be safe in his own house on Christmas morning,” the man said.
“You’d think,” she agreed.
“All of us here at Animal Control, we’re pulling for him.”
“Thanks. Everyone is,” she said. “Look, I’m in the car with my partner now. We’ll swing by and pick up the dog. We’re just ten minutes away.” She glanced at Pescoli, who was already searching for a spot to turn around.
“Good . . . that would be good.”
“Just have him ready.”
Louie cleared his throat. “I’ll . . . um . . . I’ll waive the fees?”
That was Louie’s train of thought? Fines and fees? “Good idea, Louie.” Not the brightest lightbulb on the county payroll.
“But you’ll have to sign for him. Be responsible.”
“Not a problem.” She hung up as Pescoli finished her quick U-ey and melded her Jeep into the slow-moving traffic, wending through the campuses of the county offices. Though the courthouse was located in the old part of town, on the banks of the river, the business offices, jail, juvenile complex, and sheriff’s department were newer buildings, constructed higher at the top of Boxer Bluff, which overlooked the older part of town far below. “The dog catcher nabbed Sturgis out by the Cougar Creek bridge.”
Pescoli said firmly, “Let’s go get him.”
Dan Grayson’s first ex-wife, now Mrs. Nolan Banks, wasn’t happy to see two detectives on her broad front porch when they arrived nearly half an hour later than planned. They’d called, explained why they’d been held up: taking time to pick up the sheriff’s dog before dropping him off at the local vet to make certain he was as fit as he appeared.
The Bankses’ house was massive, three stories of cedar and stone perched on the side of a cliff and overlooking a creek sliding through the canyon far below. She held open one of the oversized double doors, each of which was festooned with an oversized wreath of silvery twigs, clear glass balls, and big silver bows. “I don’t know how I can help you,” she insisted, holding on to the door as if she intended to slam it shut at any second. She was a petite woman in a slim gray dress and a pink, tightly knit sweater. A cap of short curls lay close to her head, and her large eyes were dark with suspicion.
“We just need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?” Alvarez asked.
Her lips pursed; then she opened the door wider. “Sure. Why not? I’m so, so sorry about Dan, but”—she bit her lip and lifted her shoulders—“I don’t think this is any news flash. Dan and I rarely speak. We’ve been divorced a long time.”
She stepped aside as they entered a three-storied foyer where a staircase wound upward around a twenty-foot Christmas tree decorated in lights, ribbons, and all manner of sparkling ornaments. Large rooms fanned from the main hallway, each with at least a peekaboo view of the tree. “This way.” Leading them toward the back of the house, she walked stiffly ahead, ballet slippers padding noiselessly, then motioned to a group of chairs situated near a fireplace that rose to a soaring ceiling where the paddles of a huge fan turned slowly.
“What can I tell you? I already explained that Nolan and I and the kids were here on Christmas morning.” When Pescoli pulled out her pocket recorder, she said reproachfully, “Really? You need to record our conversation?” Letting out a long breath, she added, “Okay. Fine. Who cares?” Taking a seat on a modern couch set near a wide bank of windows, she folded her arms over her chest and said, “What is it you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the finances.” Pescoli was never one to beat around the bush. “Do you know you’re the primary beneficiary of your ex-husband’s estate?”
She blinked. “But he was married to Akina!” Her hand flattened over her chest and she seemed sincerely surprised. “No, um, I knew at one time, of course. He told me. But that was long before we were divorced. I was pretty sure he changed that a few years back. He wasn’t happy with the divorce settlement . . . but . . . Geez. Wow.” She sat back against the cushions and Pescoli wondered if she was mentally calculating the value of her ex’s fortune. “You’re sure about this?”
“Looks like,” Pescoli said. “Of course, the sheriff is still alive.”
“Of course and . . . and thank God,” she added quickly, but her cheeks had taken on a rosy glow and obviously the news that she would inherit from her ex someday was good. Never mind that he was still alive or that he would have to predecease her.
Alvarez said, “So how do you feel about your ex-husband? Have you and he ever reconciled?”
“Of course not. I’m married to Nolan. Have been for years.”
“Then maybe you just flirted with him?” Alvarez said, and Pescoli saw Cara’s cheeks flush brighter.
“What are you insinuating?”
“You know how it is,” Alvarez said. “Some sparks never completely die, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes first love is the best love.”
“Really? That’s the way you’re going?” Cara asked, then turned her gaze on Pescoli. “What about you, Detective? You’ve been married a couple of times, right? You think ‘first love is the best love’?”
Pescoli was saved from answering by the rumble of a garage door winding upward. Oh, good. Company.
Alvarez said, “We just heard that you and Dan Grayson always had a thing for each other, even after the divorce.”
“Who told you that? Dan?” Outraged, she shot to her feet just as the rumbling stopped with a hard clunk. Cara’s head snapped around, as if she’d just realized that someone was home. “I think we’re done here.” She sent a hard glance toward the recorder. “And you can turn that thing off.”
Alvarez said, “We just have a few more questions.”
“I’ve told you everything I know. I was married to Dan for about three years, dated him for eighteen months before that. End of story. I had no idea I was an heir in his estate, and that’s probably a mistake anyway, so please, it’s time for you to go.” Cara didn’t wait for a response, just walked quickly toward the front hallway.
“What about your sister?” Alvarez pursued.
“Hattie? We barely speak.” She was standing by the enormous Christmas tree, dwarfed by its height.
“She seems to have had an interest in the sheriff.”
“Of course she did, his last name is Grayson, isn’t it?”
A back door creaked open.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Honey?” a voice called from the back of the house before a tall man in long overcoat appeared. “Oh, I wondered who was here.”
“Detectives Alvarez and Pescoli,” she said, somehow able to grab hold of her composure again, maybe because her husband was home. Her rock. Or maybe someone she could hide behind. “The
y’re from the sheriff’s department and they came by because of the attempt”—she cleared her throat—“the attempt on Dan’s life.”
Banks looked appropriately somber. “Helluva thing, that,” he said, taking off his coat. With it still draped over his arm, he extended a hand, first to Alvarez, then to Pescoli. “Nolan Banks.”
They introduced themselves and Alvarez even flipped open her badge as Pescoli sized the man up. She’d seen him around town before, a businessman in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven, his blond hair thinning near the temples. An aquiline nose separated close-set, intelligent eyes. In Pescoli’s opinion, Nolan Banks looked as out of place in this part of Montana as a thoroughbred at a workhorse show.
“So what’s going on here? Why are you questioning my wife?”
“Covering our bases,” Pescoli said, deciding she’d let Cara, herself, explain.
“How’s the sheriff doing?”
“He’s a fighter,” she said, wondering at the anxiety in Banks’s face.
“We’ll pray for him.”
Of course you will.
Quick footsteps pounded wildly on the stairs only to stop suddenly. Pescoli glanced up to see a girl in her early teens on the landing. She’d been gathering steam on her way downward, but at the sight of the gathering in the hallway she’d stopped short to peer over the rail.
“Oh, this is our daughter, Allison.” He smiled up at his teenager. “Alli, come on down, meet the detectives.”
“Why are they here?” she asked suspiciously, not budging an inch.
