by Lisa Jackson
O’Keefe said, “Gabe was in on it. I told him what I was going to do.”
She turned accusing eyes on her son. “You didn’t try to stop him?”
Shrugging, the kid grinned, his white teeth flashing. “He said you might be pissed.”
“No,” O’Keefe corrected. “I said I wanted to give her a thrill.”
“Yeah, and that she’d be really ticked.”
Alvarez glared at them both, even as a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Mission accomplished. On both counts.” From inside, Roscoe barked impatiently, and as she stepped out of the doorway, he barreled through, galloping off the porch in his excitement, only to come bounding back to wiggle and whine at Gabe’s feet.
“Hey, boy.” Gabe’s attention immediately focused on the dog.
“Are you out of your mind?” she whispered to O’Keefe. He laughed, a big, throaty laugh. “Depends on who you ask.”
Gabe said, “My mom says you’re ‘certifiable.’ ”
“Aggie’s always had a way of putting things,” O’Keefe muttered, finally letting her go. Alvarez peered around him to find Gabe leaning over, playing with Roscoe, who was jumping up and down, then bolting across the front yard only to come back yipping excitedly.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she said to the boy who was a stranger as much as her son. “Roscoe’s been cooped up because I’ve been working so much.”
“All day?” the boy asked.
“I have someone walk him, but it’s not the same as this.”
As if to prove her point, Roscoe bolted off across the yard again, snow flying from his big paws as he disappeared around the corner, only to spin out somewhere near the hedgerow and show up again, running in crazy circles.
“He’s possessed,” Gabe observed. “Maybe you should name him something like Crazy Devil or something.”
“Diablo loco?” She laughed and Gabe looked at her as if she were the crazy one. “I think I’ll stick with Roscoe. Come on in, it’s freezing out here!” To the dog, she yelled, “Roscoe! Come!” With a yip of pure joy, the puppy bounded over the threshold, but she caught him midleap. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“You called him,” Gabe said.
“That I did, but Roscoe knows the drill, don’t you, boy?” Carrying the whining, wiggling dog into the bathroom, she snagged a towel from a hook near the door, then began drying each of Roscoe’s big paws. He shifted and squirmed and tried to get away, but Alvarez, used to his escape tactics, prevailed. Once his paws, legs, and belly were wiped down, she let him onto the floor. “There ya go.”
Never missing a beat, he took off, toenails clicking as he raced into the front room, noticed Jane Doe lying under the couch, and, ears up, tail raised, lunged in her direction. He was rewarded with a hiss and a quick view of pink tongue surrounded by long, white, needle-sharp teeth.
“She hates him,” Gabe said as Alvarez, after washing her hands, returned to the living room.
“Trust me, she loves him but doesn’t want anyone to know. Sometimes if I get up early and neither of them wakes up, I’ll find her curled up in his bed, next to him, back to back, happy as can be. This”—Alvarez pointed at the cat cowering in her hiding spot—“is all for show.”
Gabe appeared unconvinced but continued to play with the dog, roughhousing in the living room as if he hadn’t been in a hospital bed so recently. Still hyped on adrenaline, Roscoe barked and leaped. His tail nearly cleared the coffee table of magazines and he bumped into a nearby lamp, sending it teetering precariously.
“Enough!” she said to the dog.
Pulling a face, Gabe said, “Sorry.”
Alvarez steadied the lamp. “It’s okay. Look, if you want to take him out in the back, where it’s fenced, go ahead. He really does need to get rid of some energy, but take the towel and keep it by the door for when you come in.”
Gabe didn’t have to be asked twice. He grabbed the same towel she’d used, whistled, and opened the sliding door to the small backyard. Roscoe bounded through, Gabriel flipped the towel onto the back of a nearby chair, and they were off.
“What do you do when a teenaged boy isn’t around?” O’Keefe watched the boy shut the door behind him.
“I used to jog with Roscoe. Every day. Until I was injured.”
His face darkened as he, too, remembered the attack that nearly took her life. “About that—”
“No need to go there again. Not tonight.” She hazarded a glance toward the closed slider where, just beyond the glass, she spied her son standing under the porch light. He’s not your son. Remember that. “I’m okay. Really. Getting better every day. Roscoe will have trouble keeping up with me soon.” Before he could argue, she added, “Come on, you can help in the kitchen. Make yourself useful.”
“How?”
“Stir the soup.”
“You actually made—?”
“I ordered and picked up clam chowder from Wild Wills, bought salad in a bag, and got the last three loaves of sourdough bread at the bakery.” She switched on the oven, then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of “Holiday Blend” greens—spinach, lettuce, and chard—along with a packet of dried cranberries and hazelnuts, and proceeded to pour the contents into a glass bowl. “This isn’t what I had envisioned for my first meal with Gabe,” she admitted, “but work’s nuts, so it’ll have to do. You know, originally, when I found out about Gabe and realized I’d have this chance to get to know him, I thought about introducing him to his culture. Maybe it’s weird, considering the circumstances, but I wanted to make something traditionally Mexican, like my grandmother used to do for us kids, especially at the holidays. I figured Gabe probably doesn’t get much of his Latino heritage from Aggie and Dave.”
“Zero.”
“Right. So once Aggie and Dave agreed that I could be a part of Gabe’s life, I thought that maybe we could connect on a level that might not be as threatening to his parents.”
“Possibly.” O’Keefe wasn’t convinced.
“It’s too bad it didn’t work out, at least this year, because some of the food was my favorite part of Christmas. Abuela, she made flan, with coconut or caramel for Nochebuena, Christmas Eve. And it was The Best. I’m saying that with capital letters. The Best!”
“She was a good cook, I take it.”
“Is. To this day,” she said, though it had been years since she’d seen her grandmother, and a little niggle of regret wormed its way through her heart.
“What about your mother?”
Alvarez placed the loaves of bread into the warm oven. “She’s good, too, but I remember my Aunt Biatriz’s churros. Biatriz is a musician, always playing the piano for family get-togethers, and she makes a chocolate sauce that’s just slightly hot. I think it had a little chili pepper in it to give it some kick. But she would never give up her recipe, even though every year she brought it to my grandmother Rosarita’s house. All of us kids, we got to dip the churros into these big bowls.” She smiled at the memory of all of her brothers and sisters, as well as her cousins . . . and then her smile faded as the re-collection darkened to that same forbidden territory that always crept into her heart. Clearing her throat, she refused to go down that same, painful path and forced a smile. “Trust me, it was To Die For. Again with the capital letters. Tonight, though, it’s bakery brownies.”
“And we’ll love them,” he assured her. “A brownie’s a brownie. Despite it’s heritage or culture or all those things you’ve never once shown an interest in, at least to my knowledge.”
“Bastardo!” she said, teasing, then opened the refrigerator door again. “How about something to drink? I’ve got beer and . . . a bottle of pinot gris.”
“Beer’s good.”
After handing him a chilled bottle, she checked on the bread, then glanced out the window to see that Gabe was still playing with Roscoe. “Fast friends,” she observed.
“You know what they say about a boy and his dog. Inseparable.”
“Except the dog’s here and he’s in Helena.”
“He’ll probably be pestering Aggie and Dave for one of his own.”
“Great.” The last thing she needed was Aggie to freak out about anything she was doing. It was hard enough for Aggie, as the adoptive mother, to let him have time with Alvarez and, deep down, Alvarez understood Aggie’s concern. If the roles were reversed, there was a good chance she would feel the same.
She noticed that all jocularity had faded from O’Keefe’s face. “So . . . how’s Grayson?” he asked and she tensed a bit. Though they’d never addressed her ambivalent feelings for her boss, O’Keefe had sensed that there was a connection between Grayson and her; something deeper that she’d never wanted to face, much less address.
“I don’t know,” she said to the man she professed to love, the man she did love. “He’s holding his own, I guess. Still hanging in there, but I have the feeling it’s by a thread.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded as if he meant it and her heart broke. When her gaze found his again, she saw the questions hiding in his eyes and realized he would never ask. It just wasn’t his style.
“I’m sorry too. On so many levels.” She decided now was the time to put all of her cards on the table. “Look, I care about Grayson,” she said, her throat tight. “He’s my boss and a good, good man. I respect him.” She noticed that O’Keefe’s mouth had tightened at the corners, deep brackets appearing, but she plunged on. If there was ever a chance for her and O’Keefe, she had to be honest, even brutally so. “There was a time . . . not all that long ago that I wondered if there could be anything more between us. You know, more than just a work relationship.”
He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as sip from his bottle.
“But then you came back into my life.” She touched his arm, felt his muscles tense. “And everything changed. Everything became clear. You haven’t asked, but you’ve wondered about the sheriff and me. Nothing ever happened between us. That was probably his choice, not mine, but now, regardless of how he recovers, or, God forbid, doesn’t, nothing ever will.”
She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss across his lips. “Seems as if I’ve fallen for this bastardo who came back into my life.”
His expression softened a bit. “You didn’t have to say all that.”
“Oh, yeah, I did.” She was nodding. “I just didn’t expect to do it tonight, in the kitchen.”
“Glad you did,” he said, and with a glance at the door, he set his beer on the counter, drew her into his arms, and pressed his warm, eager lips to hers. For a moment she closed her eyes, allowed herself to be swept away, pushed aside all the tensions, the headache, the terror of the past few days.
The oven timer dinged loudly and she stepped away from him, out of the safety of his arms, and back to the here and now. This was a night she was planning to spend getting to know Gabe; she couldn’t be distracted, she thought, as, using a towel, she pulled the warm loaves of bread from the oven.
“Any idea who did it?” O’Keefe asked, picking up his beer and taking a swallow.
“Who shot Grayson?” she asked, carving the dome off the first loaf, then removing most of the warm, fragrant bread from inside its crust. “That’s the problem. Too many ideas. We’ve got a lot of suspects, a lot of motives, a lot of alibis. We’re just trying to sort it out.”
“If I can help . . .”
“Cube the bread.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the investigation.”
“I know.” She handed him a knife, then sliced the top off the second loaf.
As a private investigator, he didn’t have to jump through all the legal hoops she was forced to and could bend some of the rules that she was afraid of breaking. To her way of thinking, that could be a good thing. As long as the case wasn’t compromised. “I’ll let you know,” she said.
“I assume the two cases are connected. Grayson and the judge.”
“The autopsy on Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was today. I’ll have a preliminary report on the cause of death and a ballistics report first thing in the morning. Then we’ll know for sure if we’ve got one assailant, which has my vote, if anyone’s asking. What’re the chances of two assassins? We can even rule out a copycat thing because the judge was dead before the attack on Grayson.”
O’Keefe took a long swallow from his bottle, then pulled out the bread board and started cubing the hot centers from the loaves. “Any chance Grayson and Samuels-Piquard have a connection other than professionally?”
“You mean, like, lovers?” she asked and conjured up the man with whom she’d worked, her mentor and guide. Then she thought about the hard-nosed opinionated judge. “I doubt it. If he was interested in anyone, it was probably Hattie Grayson, his brother’s widow, though actually she was his brother’s ex-wife; they were divorced before he killed himself.”
“Maybe they weren’t lovers,” he said thoughtfully, “but had some other social connection. I know it’s the logical thought that the attacks had to be because of their jobs, that maybe they’d sent a nutcase to the Big House and either he or someone close to him decided to take a little revenge, but that’s just an assumption.”
“I know.” The truth was she’d tossed around the same idea herself but hadn’t found any thread tying the two victims together. “We’ve talked to the families, checked records, though we’re still going through all of the judge’s info.” Once they’d finished with the bread, she looked out the slider again and saw Gabe and Roscoe still running in the snow. “They’re both going to be soaked.” She found water glasses in the cupboard. “I shouldn’t be discussing the case, or any case for that matter, with you, y’know.”
“Just giving you a different perspective, but you’re right. Not tonight.” He touched her shoulder and she looked up. “Are you really okay?” His gaze held hers for an instant too long, a few seconds that caused heat to climb up the back of her neck.
“I’m fine.”
One side of his mouth lifted and a dark eyebrow raised. “More than fine, I’d say.”
“Keep that thought, O’Keefe.” She smiled. She understood that he couldn’t spend the night, not with Gabe here. They’d already had this discussion via quick texts and had decided, especially upon Aggie’s insistence, her maternal instincts in high alert, that O’Keefe would drive the boy home to be with his family later this evening.
Pouring soup into each bread bowl, she said, “I don’t know if having the cases linked will narrow the suspect list or broaden it, but I suspect the latter. We’re already double-checking anyone who knew them both and potentially held a grudge or had something to gain.”
Just as she was setting plates on the eating bar, the sliding door opened and Gabe, red-faced, stepped inside.
She said, “Don’t forget the towel!”
“Oh, yeah . . .”
Roscoe was already sprinting through the door, but Gabe collared the rambunctious pup and did a half-decent job of cleaning those massive paws.
Alvarez asked, “How about you? Are you wet too?”
“Just a little,” Gabe said, as snowflakes began melting in his black hair. “Dry snow.”
“Okay. Come on, wash up and you can help serve,” Alvarez said to the boy. “Around here, it’s every man for himself.”
He was more than glad to find plates and put out flatware while she tossed the prepacked salad dressing with the greens and O’Keefe scooped spoonfuls of thick New England clam chowder into each sourdough bowl. She placed a pat of butter and a pinch of dried parsley on top of the soup. “Voilà,” she said. “Almost homemade.”
“Maybe better,” O’Keefe said.
She laughed. “Nope, assuredly better.”
Carrying his bowl to the table, O’Keefe said, “Aren’t we domestic?”
“We are tonight.” But this was temporary. Despite the lit tree and red candles, tonight wasn’t Christmas, and though there was a heart-warming feeling of family this eveni
ng, it would be fleeting. The truth of the matter was that Gabriel Reeve wasn’t her legal son and Dylan O’Keefe certainly wasn’t her husband. Tonight, though, she wasn’t going to allow her overly practical, realistic self to ruin the moment. This patched-together, belated holiday meal felt right, somehow, as if she actually were part of an oddly splintered family.
Outside the window, the snow fell softly, almost peacefully, while inside the fire burned quietly and the lights on the Christmas tree still glowed.
Growing up, she’d been a part of a large, pious, and happy family. At least that’s how she remembered it, until as a teenager her innocence had been stolen, her rose-colored vision of the future destroyed. She’d left home, never to return, and the spirit and joy of the holidays were, she’d assumed, part of her oh so distant past.
Now as they sat down, Gabe asked, “Don’t you say grace?” Casting a glance at Alvarez. “My mom is, like, we have to say grace before every meal.”
For years, she’d avoided the holidays and any celebration, and she’d sheltered herself from others with a thick, standoffish shell.
Now, with O’Keefe, she felt that shell cracking a bit, sensed there was a chance for a new beginning.
Despite the horrors and demands of her job.
“That’s a good point,” Alvarez said to Gabe, “but we’re going to do it my family’s way, okay? A prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe. It’s kind of a tradition.” She glanced at O’Keefe, caught his eye, and for the first time in a long while, she bowed her head.
Chapter 20
“So what the hell’s wrong with you?” Alvarez asked Pescoli the next day as they slid into one of the well-worn booths in Shorty’s Diner, a twenty-four-hour restaurant and bar that was located close enough to the department offices for convenience, far enough away that they weren’t tripping over other officers come lunchtime.
A long red counter, circa 1958, ran the length of one end of the building. Padded stools, raised up a step, lined the customer side of the counter with a few of the seats currently occupied. Conversation hummed and a deep fryer sizzled somewhere on the other side of a large window cut into the wall separating the counter area from the kitchen.
