by Lisa Jackson
“I spent a lot of time on the computer and reconnected with my husband. We’d dated in high school but lost touch. I’m not proud of it,” she admitted, her dark eyes flashing as her baby stuffed all the fingers of one hand into her mouth, “but that’s what happened. Rick and I began communicating. E-mailing, texting, and talking on the phone. Dan found out, but it didn’t matter, by that time I’d already talked to a lawyer. Rick and I got married and now we have Sachi.” She smiled at the baby and her daughter, around her wet fingers, smiled back. “I couldn’t be happier,” Akina insisted, and Pescoli believed her.
“What about Dan’s first marriage?”
“Oh, Cara.” Akina rolled her eyes and when Sachi started putting up a fuss, found a pacifier to place between her lips. Immediately her daughter was appeased. “It was all kind of weird, if you ask me. Oh. You just did, didn’t you?” She smiled, then let out a long sigh. “She was remarried to Nolan, but she kept calling Dan. Like, to come and fix things, you know. I remember an overflowing faucet once, and it was after hours, and Nolan was out of town, but Cara couldn’t get a plumber, so good old Dan to the rescue, and then once . . . Geez, what was it? Oh, a lightbulb broke off in a fixture. Dan went trit-trotting right over there again, like a damned trained pony. Oops, sorry, we do not swear in this house. Little ears, you know?”
She slid her eyes to her daughter, who had spit out her pacifier. “Cara’s excuse was that her husband was useless when it came to home repairs.” She gave Pescoli a woman-to-woman-you-know-what-I-mean look before continuing. “So, she’d call and off he’d go. After working overtime. Leaving his wife at home alone. Again. And that was just the way it went.” Akina lifted her free hand as if she couldn’t understand it. “I didn’t like it. At all. At first I was jealous, but it didn’t make any difference. He’d been a rancher before a cop and he can fix anything, so she took advantage of him.”
“What did you do?”
“Like I said, I started connecting with old friends on the Internet. Rick and I got together while we were planning a high-school reunion. He was divorced, I was . . . unhappy, and we just clicked again.”
“Do you blame Cara for your divorce?” Alvarez asked.
“Oh, no. I was insecure anyway.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I even blame Dan. I blame myself and Rick, and trust me, it was the best decision ever.”
Alvarez prodded, “Was Dan upset when he found out?”
“About Rick? Relieved is more like it. He might have been a little upset, but, no, not really. I don’t think he was even surprised. Seriously, the marriage was a mistake. We both knew it.” For a second she seemed a little sad. “But he’s a good guy, and I’m sorry about what happened. Do you have any idea who would do this?”
“We’re working on it,” Pescoli said, giving Grayson’s ex the company line. “Can you think of someone who might want him dead?”
“Any of those freaks he sent to prison, for sure.” Akina lowered her voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “Some of those guys are real psychos.”
“Any of them in particular?” Alvarez asked casually.
“Uh, he mostly kept his work out of the house and, as I said, he wasn’t home much. Oh, wait,” she said suddenly, as if an unlikely thought had struck. “There was one guy who really bothered him. Someone . . . Geez, I can’t remember his name, though.” She bit her lip and slowly shook her head as she thought. “Was it Renfro? Nah, or . . . Red Neck!” she giggled at that and her eyebrows drew together. “Oh, shoot! Rennick?” Akina looked to Pescoli for the answer. “I know it, I really do. It’s on the tip of my tongue!”
“Resler?” Alvarez asked.
“Resler! Yes! That’s it.” She nearly jumped off her chair, as if she’d just solved the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. “Gary Resler!”
“Gerry,” Alvarez supplied.
“Oh. Yeah, that sounds right. Gary. Gerry. One of those.”
Her phone made a noise again and she glanced down at the table where it sat. A new text was being sent her way. “Gerry Resler,” Akina repeated, as if to embed it into her brain forever. “Now I remember, a real whack job.” But her attention had been diverted to her phone.
Pescoli asked, “What about Nolan Banks?”
She picked up her phone, but her head snapped sharply up as she texted a response. “That weenie? A killer? Don’t make me laugh.”
“He could have been upset with Dan’s attention to his wife,” Pescoli said.
Grayson’s ex glanced up from her screen. “There’s ‘upset’ and then there’s ‘upset,’ y’know, with rage and all that. I don’t think Nolan has it in him.”
Alvarez put in, “What about Grayson’s money?”
“What money? A retirement and an interest in the family ranch?” She set her phone back down on the table. “Dan Grayson is not a rich man. And anyway, what would Nolan Banks care?” Then the light dawned. “You mean she’s the one who would inherit? Cara? Son of a bitch!” As if she suddenly heard herself, she winced and glanced at her daughter. “Well, if that’s the case, Dan’s an idiot. I can’t believe it.”
Alvarez asked as a final question, “Did you think you would get his estate?”
“Are you kidding?” Akina shook her head, and her daughter started reaching for the band holding her hair away from her face. “I didn’t think about it much, but if I had, I would have thought he would leave everything to his brothers or his nieces. He’s nuts about them!”
Chapter 13
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson, I just don’t have any other answers for you.” Karen Skinner, the critical care nurse at the desk, glanced at the chart on her computer monitor. “Your brother’s vitals are surprisingly strong considering the trauma he’s experienced, but he’s still in critical condition.”
Cade turned his head to view Dan on the bed, then spying all the tubes and monitors and electronic equipment, turned back to the nurse. “When’s the doctor coming back to see him?”
“Dr. Bennett will be here later this afternoon. She was already here this morning. Dr. Kapule is scheduled to return this evening.” She saw his hesitation. “I could have them call you.”
“Do that,” Cade said, snaking another look at his brother. Poor son of a bitch. Who could survive what he’d been through? Dan was strong, but this was too much. Hazarding one last glance at the bed, he felt his jaw tighten. The unconscious man on that hospital bed in no way resembled the brother Cade had known all his life.
After waiting two hours, he figured it was time to go. Nothing had changed. Nothing would change for a while. His brother just had to heal.
At least in the hospital he was safe.
From what?
From whom?
He’d already considered all the enemies Dan had made in his life, from football rivals, to political challenges, to people he worked with, and he’d come up blank. Aside from some crook Dan had sent up the river, or maybe that particular loser’s family, Cade couldn’t think of anyone who would resort to violence.
And whoever had tried to take him out was a good shot with a rifle, a hunter or military man, or maybe even another cop. But he couldn’t come up with anyone Dan had pissed off to the point of attempted murder.
The same damned questions that had been rattling around in his brain for the past two days still nagged at him, wouldn’t let him go. If a man couldn’t be safe in his own home on Christmas morning, things were bad.
Buzzed out of the ICU, Cade walked into the waiting room and past the female guard, giving the woman a nod. The guards, like the nursing staff, rotated, which he understood. He just hoped that the security offered by the county was enough.
As he made his way outside the building, he thought again about Hattie’s claims that someone had killed Bart, but Cade had never put much stock in that theory. He remembered Bart’s despair, his depression. Once, soon after Bart’s divorce from Hattie, Cade had heard the television in the den of the ranch house after he’d come in from his trip int
o town. As he’d walked down the hallway, shedding his coat and hat, then dropping his keys and wallet on a small table near the stairs, he’d recognized the sounds of a football game in progress. The room was dark, illuminated only by flickering images on the forty-two-inch screen.
Bart was seated in the battered leather recliner. A half-empty bottle of whiskey was on the coffee table, an empty glass on the side table, their daddy’s Colt .45 in Bart’s hands. The gun hung between his legs and he kept spinning the cylinder as he watched the Forty-Niners being handed their heads by the Seahawks. On the table was a thick manila envelope addressed to Bartholomew Grayson. The return address was for the law firm Bart had employed during his divorce.
“Bart?” Cade had asked cautiously.
“Hey.” But his eyes had stared blankly at the television.
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’. Just watching the game.”
“With a gun.”
Bart had blinked, looked down at his hands, and frowned. “Yeah, guess so.”
“Why?”
A shrug.
“Is it loaded?”
“Guess so.”
“Maybe you should put it away.” Cade held out his hand and his brother finally looked up. What he saw in that moment caused his heart to freeze. There was a deadness in his brother’s gaze, and the only other spark, other than the reflection from the images on the television, was a quick, silent accusation.
“Maybe you should go to hell.”
Cade’s hand was still stretched forward, palm up, fingers splayed, waiting to accept the weapon.
His brother held his gaze.
Cade felt the seconds tick by as a drip of sweat ran down his spine as Bart considered his next move.
“Come on, brother. Give it up. You know whiskey and firearms don’t mix.”
The beams of headlights flashed across the windows and Bart blinked for the first time since Cade had entered the room. “Someone comin’ over?”
“Dan.”
“Why?”
“Thought the four of us could watch the end of the game and play a little poker.”
“Zed’s gone. Went to Missoula. Meetin’ Sally.”
Sally Eberhart was the widow of a good friend. Zed had been seeing her off and on for a couple of years.
“Then it’ll just be the three of us. Come on. Maybe this time we can beat Dan, get a little of our money back.” He heard the back door creak open only to slam shut. “Ready to lose some serious cash?” Dan bellowed from the kitchen. Boot steps pounded on the floorboards, growing louder.
Bart squinted up at Cade, his nostrils flaring a bit. “You’re an asshole.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Slowly, Bart handed his brother the .45. “I wasn’t plannin’ on poker tonight.”
“Plans change,” Cade had said, emptying the cylinder of the Colt and finding a single bullet. “Y’know, just so we’re clear: Russian roulette isn’t such a good idea.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bart had said with more than a little venom as he’d capped the whiskey bottle and climbed to his feet. “But you always have been full of shit.”
Cade saw no reason to argue.
The Seahawks scored again and the crowd went wild.
Bart shuffled out of the room, only listing slightly.
Cade kept the .45.
To this day it was locked in the bottom drawer of the night table next to his bed. Hidden beneath the family Bible.
A rush of warm air tinged with the scents of oregano and tomato sauce hit Pescoli full force as she walked into Dino’s Pizza Parlor. It had been a long day of spinning her wheels. She and Alvarez were following up on some of the information they’d gathered today, but still, the investigation seemed caught in a quagmire. Grayson’s condition hadn’t changed. The alibis of the ex-cons in the area hadn’t been broken, at least not yet, and though it was a separate matter, the missing judge still hadn’t been located.
She’d called ahead and ordered two pizzas, a meat lover’s for Jeremy and a vegetarian for Bianca. That’s how her kids were, opposite as night to day. For herself, she figured she’d sample a little of each, while the family gathered around the tree to exchange gifts in the spirit of the rapidly passing season.
Was it late? Yes, but not too late, she figured.
Was it untraditional? You bet, but maybe she preferred to think of it as “unique,” as theirs wasn’t a particularly religious family. Nonetheless, she liked to inject a little bit of Christ into Christmas. Really, that was the point. Right?
She wended her way through tables that were half filled. A few families gathered at the smaller tables near the fireplace, while groups of teenagers who had apparently devoured more than their fill of Grandma’s home cooking had come down to the pizza parlor to hang out. Clusters of the kids filled one section of booths, spilling over to nearby tables, laughing, talking, eating, and, of course, texting. Busboys couldn’t keep up with the half-drunk sodas and plates covered with unwanted crusts that littered some abandoned tables. She paid for her order and a surly-faced twentysomething found her two boxes under the warming lights. His name tag read “Eric,” and Pescoli pegged him as the much-disliked boyfriend of Allison Banks.
Huh.
“You’re Allison Banks’s boyfriend?” she asked as he carried the flat boxes to the cash register. Something flickered in his dark eyes.
“Yeah, I know her,” he answered, suspicion heavy in his voice.
“I think she thought you might be stopping by.”
“Who are you?” he asked, then glanced at her ticket. “Regan?”
“Actually, I’m a detective with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department.”
A little bit of panic rose in his eyes. “What are the cops doing talking to Alli?” he asked as she reached for the boxes. “She do something wrong?”
“No, we were just asking questions. Mrs. Banks was married to Sheriff Grayson at one time.”
“So?” he asked.
“He was shot yesterday morning.”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “It’s, like, all everyone is talking about, how some sniper dude tried to take him out, but that don’t have anything to do with Alli.”
“It was just a few questions.”
His boss, a man in his seventies with a thick gray mustache, was staring at Eric with the sharp eye of an owner anticipating someone skimming money from the till.
Lowering his voice, Eric said, “Alli don’t know nothing.”
“Do you?”
“Are you crazy?” He glanced over Pescoli’s shoulder to the couple who were impatiently standing behind her. “Can I help you?” he asked as Pescoli scooped up the boxes and headed outside. She didn’t really consider Eric a suspect in an attempted murder plot, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he had a problem with the police. She made a mental note to check into his record and see what it was that made Allison Banks’s boyfriend so nervous around the cops.
After finding her car in the parking lot, she placed the boxes on the front seat, then dashed across the street to the veterinary clinic and dog shelter.
Jordan Eagle had spied Pescoli approaching and brought Sturgis into the reception area, his black coat gleaming, a jaunty red kerchief knotted around his neck. At the sight of a familiar face, Sturgis let out a sharp yip and began straining on the leash. All the while, his tail wagged furiously.
Pescoli felt a rush of relief at the sight of the dog as Jordan said, “Guess he’s glad to see you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
A petite woman whose coppery skin and straight black hair hinted at her Native American heritage, Jordan was barely over five feet and probably not much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, yet she had a quiet way about her that was calming to the animals she treated, even if they outweighed her.
“Is he okay?” Pescoli asked.
“Fine,” she said, patting the old dog, whose muzzle
was graying. “A little concerned as he’s out of his routine, I think, but physically strong. All his vitals are normal, he’s not dehydrated, and no obvious signs of any trauma. He needed his nails clipped and his teeth should be cleaned soon, but that requires anesthesia, so I thought I’d wait to find out what Sheriff Grayson wants.” Her eyes clouded a bit. “How is he?”
“I only know what the doctors tell the department,” Pescoli said. “He’s alive, holding steady, but has a long way to go. You might get more information from the hospital.”
“I doubt it.” Jordan’s smooth brow was etched in concern.
“I’m sure the undersheriff will hold a press conference,” Pescoli said. “Hopefully there will be more information then. So, what do I owe you?”
She smiled down at the dog. “This one’s on the house. Grayson’s a good guy and I hate that this happened to him. Besides, this guy here,” she said as she stroked the dog’s head, “is a favorite of mine. I’m just glad he’s okay after a night out in the elements.”
“The department would—”
“I know, but no.” Shaking her head, the vet was having none of Pescoli’s attempts to pay, so she gave up. Once outside, Sturgis jumped willingly into the backseat of her Jeep to sit up and peer out the window as she drove.
“Wish I knew what you saw,” Pescoli said to the dog as she nosed her vehicle out of Dino’s lot and turned in the direction of her home. Through town, she passed storefronts decorated with painted snowmen and Santas and elves, as well as the First Presbyterian Church with its lighted creche. Now that Christmas was over, all the decorations seemed tired, as if they couldn’t stand to be adorning buildings and trees for one more day, let alone another week. “Perspective,” she told herself, knowing it was from her own viewpoint, that she was one of those people pulling at the bit to bury the current calendar and start the New Year. While others turned nostalgic as January approached, she was glad to shed the previous 365 days.
