by Lisa Jackson
“Good to know.” If it turned out to be true. Claudia’s sense of reality seemed to shift with the days. Another question plagued her. “Have you seen the stalker again?”
“What stalker?”
Oh, dear God.
“The man in white, maybe white camouflage that you noticed under the tree in the park.”
“The park across the street from us?” she said, and there was a note of concern in her voice. “I told you about him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. My. Well, I was probably mistaken about that. My husband, Barry, Doctor Baron Dubois, he told me I was mistaken.”
“Were you?” Pescoli asked, wondering about the little round man who had seemed so concerned about his wife when they’d spoken in the foyer of their large, brick home. Was he trying to protect his wife, not wanting anyone to know of her hallucinations, if that’s what they were, or did he have another motive?
“Was I what? Oh, mistaken.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “Of course not. That man was there, I tell you, and if you ask me, he’s the one who killed Kathy!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dubois,” she said as she spied Sage Zoller stick her head into the office. She held up a finger to indicate she was about done with the conversation and to hold on.
“You’re welcome, Detective, and please, stop by anytime.” As she hung up, Pescoli was left with more questions than she had when she’d first dialed. “What’s up?” she asked Sage.
“A couple of things.” The junior detective slid into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Leaning against the edge of Pescoli’s desk, she said, “First off, the lab can’t find anything from the ashes found in the judge’s house.”
“Not good news.”
“I know, but there it is. No way to analyze them any further. All they can say for certain is that it was paper.”
“Great.”
“But we got lucky on another lead. I was able to run down Rose Hellman, the waitress at Hot Stacks, and she did confirm that Edie Gardener, now Mrs. Art Danielson, was there on Christmas morning, sometime around ten or ten-thirty, and that there was quite a stir when she was given her ring. She let out a whoop that caught everyone in the restaurant’s attention; then her husband placed the ring on her finger, kissed her, and twirled her off her feet, knocking over several glass pots of warm blackberry syrup in the process. Everyone in the restaurant clapped.”
“They still could have shot Grayson and made it to Missoula.”
“First they’d have to ski off the hill, find their vehicle, presumably change, as I asked, and Rose said Edie was in a short skirt and tights, but yeah, it could happen.”
Pescoli tapped her pencil on the desk. “I wonder what they drive?” She remembered the Buick, sans tires, gathering dust in the carport, but hadn’t remembered seeing another vehicle.
“I checked. He did have a truck, big-ass Dodge, but he totaled it six weeks ago. Probably where he got the money for the ring. And she has a twenty-year-old Honda Civic.”
“Which could have a ski rack.” But she knew she was pushing it. “Check on that and also the Millers, the neighbors of the judge. They’re supposed to be back in town, so maybe they can tell us if she was seeing anyone or if anyone suspicious was around and, oh, the phone number of Donna Goodwin. I think she may be their housekeeper as well as the judge’s. And do we have any leads on a boyfriend, whom she might have been seeing?”
Sage shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her face. “Not yet, but we’re still running down some cell phone numbers. There’s one that she called quite a few times and it’s untraceable, one of those disposable ones. Someone called her from it as well. It was bought from a store in Spokane and we’re trying to run down the owner.”
“Let me know when you find out who it is.”
“If I do,” she said. “But you’ll be the first to know.”
“Mom, er, Detective,” Jeremy said, knocking on the partially open door. He stuck his head inside. “There’s a Mr. Douglas here to see you. Says he’s with the paper.”
“He is.” She shot Sage a knowing glance, then said, “Don’t send him back. I’ll meet him up front.” Having made the mistake of being cooped up in her office with Manny once before, she wasn’t going to put herself through it again. His gaze had been everywhere, on her computer monitor, checking her cell phone, which she’d left on the desk, eyeing files spread on the top of her short cabinet. Nope, not again.
“I’ll get back to you,” Sage promised and scooted by Jeremy, who was still standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“Okay, let’s go,” Pescoli said and followed her son to the front of the building where Joelle was seated at the front desk, talking on the phone, and Manny Douglas waited on the outside of the reception counter, on one foot and then the other, in front of the department’s Christmas tree that had definitely lost all its luster. The star on the top was listing dangerously, and some of the decorations had fallen onto a fake, glittery carpet of snow and equally fake unopened presents. Considering the current state of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, the decorations seemed almost gauche, brushing on obscene. Even the silver sign in block letters strung from the exposed beams of the ceiling felt tacky and irreverent when Dan Grayson’s current condition was considered.
The letters spelled out: merry christmas and happy new year!
Not a prayer, Pescoli thought as she caught Manny’s eye. Today he was wearing rain gear straight out of an outdoors men’s catalogue: solid blue Gore-Tex pants and jacket, unless she missed her guess.
Snow was melting on the shoulders of his hooded jacket and his eyeglasses had fogged. As she approached, he took off the glasses and cleaned them with a cloth he’d withdrawn from one of his many pockets.
Mission accomplished, Jeremy peeled off to sit on a stool near Joelle’s desk. She, apparently, was his mentor, and even thinking of her in the capacity of teacher just seemed wrong. Other than Seymore, the part-time maintenance guy, Joelle was the least likely person to be a cop in the building, maybe in the whole damned department, but there she was, pointing painted nails at maps and information packets, flashing her brilliant smile at Pescoli’s I-wanna-be-a-coplike-my-dad son.
She couldn’t worry about it now. “Hi,” she said to the reporter and forced a smile. “What can I do for you, Manny?”
He snorted. “I think it’s more like what I can do for you.”
“Fair enough.”
The front door opened and in with a gust of wind came a middle-aged couple who quickly approached the desk. As the woman shivered visibly, her face red, her lips a little blue, the man with her zeroed in on Jeremy and said, “We need help, or someone to call AAA. The car is broken down about three streets over and we’re from out of town.”
Manny watched the exchange as Jeremy stepped up to help them. “Look, we need to go somewhere where we can talk.” As if to accentuate his point, the door opened again and a woman bundled head to foot in a long down coat, hat, and scarf called, “Do you have public restrooms here?”
There was no reason to argue. “Fine.” She led him down the hallway but veered away from her office and found a free interrogation room. Indicating a straight-backed chair on one side of the table, she slid into the spot across from him. “What have you got?”
His eyes fairly gleamed. “I’ve got something important to the case, but for it, I want an exclusive.”
“Exclusive?”
“On the case surrounding Judge Samuels-Piquard’s killer.”
“You know I can’t do that. We’re asking for the public’s help, using all the media resources. An exclusive is out.” What kind of BS was this?
“Then give me something extra, okay? First crack at a new angle on the story or a new piece of evidence.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m going to help you. A lot.”
“How?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“And I don’t have ti
me for any bull.”
“Oh, I know it.” He was nodding as he unzipped his jacket and reached into a deceptively large pocket to withdraw a wide ziplock bag. Through the clear plastic were two items: a manila envelope addressed in block letters to Manny Douglas, c/o the Mountain Reporter with the newspaper’s post office address included, and a picture.
Pescoli’s stomach dropped when she realized the 5x7 was a photo of Judge Samuels-Piquard, a head shot that she’d used in her latest campaign to be reelected to the bench. When she flipped the picture over, she saw, scrawled across in the back in black ink, a simple message:
WHO’S NEXT?
“This is evidence,” Pescoli told him flatly. “You have to leave it here.”
“I know.”
“It came today, in the envelope?”
“That’s right.”
“Who touched it?”
“In our office, just the mail clerk and me, I think. You’ve got my prints on file and I told Gary, he’s the clerk, that if he wasn’t in the system, he needed to come down here and be printed so you can compare and eliminate him.”
“It’s a long shot anyway,” she thought, but figured there might be a partial print and possibly DNA in the seal of the envelope from the killer’s saliva.
This was their first big break.
“Kinda obvious the killer isn’t finished yet. He has more victims planned.”
She felt sick inside. He was right. Why else the note on the back of the photo? “So why do you think the killer decided to send this to you?” she asked.
Palms out, his hands spread wide, he said, “I’m the best.”
“Oh, right. I guess I forgot for a second.”
“So what do you say?” Manny asked, eyebrows raising in anticipation, arching over the rims of his glasses.
“Okay, fine. You’re up to bat first, but no exclusive.”
“And you should know, we’re running with the story that the picture came in to us and we’re working closely with the department. You have anything else I can add?”
“Nothing you can’t get from the public information officer.”
He sighed theatrically. “Darla Vale isn’t all that forthcoming.”
“You mean she denied you an exclusive too.”
“Something like that.”
“I guess you’d better get used to it.”
“Come on, Pescoli. A little tit for tat here, okay. At least give me first call?”
She glanced down at the photograph and felt a shiver slide down her spine. Who the hell were they dealing with? What kind of psycho had decided to taunt them, and the question he asked, Who’s next? was a warning that he wasn’t yet done. She felt, in negotiating with Manny Douglas as if she were bargaining with the devil. Well, so be it. He was just ambitious to a fault. “Just don’t get in the way of the investigation,” she warned.
He held up both palms in surrender.
“Good.”
“But I’m going to hold you to this deal, that you call me first if there’s a break in the case.”
“I’m sure you will, Manny,” she said, scooping up the newfound evidence. “On that, I don’t have a single doubt.”
Stomping snow from her boots, Hattie opened the door to her house and was met with a wall of heat, and the aroma of something tangy, robust, and spicy hit her full in the face. Her stomach rumbled as she threw her car keys into her purse, then shrugged off her coat.
“Something smells just short of wonderful,” she said, and from deep in the kitchen her mother laughed hard enough that the laughter gave way to a coughing fit.
“It should. Been working on it for hours,” Zena called from the kitchen. She stepped into the hallway, wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon. “My version of minestrone soup. Got the recipe from a friend of mine; you remember Tottie. Well, she never could quite get the spices right, so I tweaked it a bit. Uh-oh, here comes trouble!”
“Mommy!” Mallory yelled, and both girls came running from the back bedroom. Mallory, in a turtleneck, tutu, and ballet slippers, danced and twirled her way into the living area. McKenzie, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and cowboy boots, clomped fast behind her sister.
“Beware the thundering herd!” Zena declared.
“How’re my girls?” Hattie asked, kneeling down. All of her weariness suddenly disappeared as she hugged first one twin, then the other. “Have you had fun with Grandma?”
“They had a blast,” Zena said. “And don’t let them tell you differently.” She waggled her spoon, pointing first at McKenzie, then Mallory. “Did we make cookies or what?”
“Yeah!” McKenzie said. “Gingerbread men!”
“Seriously?” Hattie looked over her shoulder at her mother. “You know it’s almost the new year.”
“I had some leftover dough.” She lifted a shoulder. “Couldn’t let it go to waste.”
“We made gingerbread women too!” Mallory added and gave her sister a get-it-right glare. “Not just men.” They bounced into the kitchen and Hattie followed to see that, indeed, lying faceup on cooling racks, two dozen or so gingerbread people were decorated, or overdecorated to the max. Neon-colored frosting, cinnamon hearts, sprinkles, and tiny chocolate chips had been pushed into the cookies in every imaginable combination.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” McKenzie whispered.
“That they are. Every last one of them.” Hattie glanced at her mother. “Thanks.”
“No sweat,” Zena said and stirred some fresh pasta into a huge pot of soup, then opened the oven door, and the smell of baking bread escaped on a warm cloud. “Dinner’s about on. Go on, girls, wash up!”
With a little less enthusiasm, they raced down the short hallway to the bathroom. Zena glanced at her daughter once they were alone. “How’d it go?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you were going to go talk to Cade about Dan.”
“Yes.”
“I know there was more to that conversation.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, sure you do, honey. It’s the damned elephant in the room that neither of us ever talks about. But I’ve battled cancer and still am. God knows if I’m going to win that fight, so I don’t have time for any more skating around the issue.”
Hattie, standing near the kitchen table, stared in disbelief at her mother. Zena knew? That had to be what she was leading up to. Heart beating a little faster, she said, “What issue?”
“Hattie, for the love of God. I know you’ve had a fascination, no, make that an obsession with those Grayson boys since you were in high school, maybe younger. And I don’t blame you. They’ve got it all, and I’ve always been one to appreciate a sexy man, otherwise I wouldn’t have been married five damned times!” She gave the pot another stir. “When I was your age, I think I was married to Cara’s father, Richard, at the time, or maybe I was on to Hank by that time, I really can’t remember, but I never dreamed I would have said ‘I do’ and meant it five times. Lordy. Anyway, doesn’t matter, I always told you that Dan Grayson was the brother you should have married.”
“I know.”
“But Cade, he was the one who was in your blood, honey. I knew about Bart’s problem, y’know, about fathering kids. Wasn’t hard to figure out when you tried so long and nothing happened. Yet you were pregnant in a blink with the twins.”
“Mom, this is really none of your business.”
“Well, I’m making it my business right now,” she said and finding a tasting spoon, took a dip from the kettle. Steam rose from the small spoon and she blew across the rich broth before tasting it. “Mmmm. Perfect,” she said. “Better than Tottie Juniper’s, let me tell you.” She slipped the spoon into the sink where several other pans and cookie sheets were soaking. “So, I’m asking again, how’d it go with Cade?”
Hattie was about to argue, but Zena sent her a look that could cut through steel. “Don’t,” she warned.
Hattie sighed and looked up at the ceili
ng. “It went about how you’d expect.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Worse,” Hattie admitted, remembering the fury in Cade’s eyes, the anger at her, the guilt at his own participation. Hearing the pipes groan as the girls turned off the water, she said, “I’ll fill you in later.”
“And I’ll give you all the motherly advice I can muster!”
“Perfect,” Hattie said as McKenzie and Mallory reappeared, their faces red from scrubbing, their hands still moist from splashing water. “Come on, let’s set the table. Grandma made us soup.”
The girls helped serve and Hattie wondered how they’d react once they knew the truth; it was bound to come out now, and she hated to think how that would play out. They were eight now, though sometimes they each acted as if they were three, and kids in school could be rough. If parents talked and their children found out, there could be round after merciless round of teasing. She imagined she’d be the subject of small-town gossip and the butt of many nasty jokes, but she could handle it; she doubted her business would suffer, only her personal reputation, but she could handle it.
Not so much her girls. They were at a tender age, too young to really understand, too old not to get some of it. Would she tell them? Of course. Eventually. She just wasn’t sure when. A lot of her timing would probably depend on what Cade might want, what he would do.
So far, judging by his reaction this afternoon, it wasn’t looking all that good.
Chapter 24
Brewster went ballistic when he saw the picture of the judge. Completely and utterly ballistic! He demanded more information than Pescoli could give him, then phoned
Manny Douglas at the Mountain Reporter as well and had a few words with Douglas’s editor.
Of course he’d learned nothing more, but he’d called a meeting, and so, after five o’clock, aside from a skeleton crew left to man the desks, the detectives and some of the road deputies had been called into a meeting in the room usually assigned for a task force, which, it seemed, might be happening.
Alvarez caught up with Pescoli as they walked into the wide room and took a spot at the table. “Brewster wants us to bring everyone else up to speed.”
