Ready to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “Perfect.”

  Pescoli had spent the last two hours going over the suspect lists again, separating out those who had rock-solid alibis, or those with flimsy motives. This guy, whoever the hell he was, was a whack job, demanding attention, sending a picture of the judge to the newspaper to keep attention to his crime and also taunt and bait the police.

  The killer obviously had his own list as he’d indicated he wasn’t finished with his business.

  No matter which angle Pescoli took, she always came back to Maurice Verdago, the one ex-con who wasn’t anywhere to be found. He’d never returned to his job as a janitor in a Helena apartment complex, nor returned to his home, which, according to Sage Zoller and a detective from the Helena Police Department, held nothing of interest.

  So why was he in the wind?

  She double-checked his résumé. Not only had he been in the army, it seemed, but he was in the special ops, a sharpshooter. He had to be the guy. Right? He had a temper. It was all there in the report and extremely suspicious that he’d gone to ground.

  There was something wrong there. Very wrong.

  If she could just figure it out.

  “Okay, everyone listen up,” Brewster ordered as chairs were scooted into the table and conversation died. The room was cold, and Rebecca O’Day, a corporal deputy, took the initiative and fiddled with a radiating space heater.

  Brewster sat in the middle of the long cafeteria-type table, directly across from Pescoli, who was wedged between Alvarez and Kayan Rule in the room built of concrete blocks painted a dull industrial gray. The floor was linoleum circa 1970 and shone bright under the overhead fluorescents. A copy of the picture, note, and envelope they’d received were posted on a large whiteboard in one corner of the room. Brewster cleared his throat and got everyone’s attention.

  “We’ve got a situation here. Well, I guess we’ve had it since Christmas morning or even before as it seems the judge was actually killed before the unknown took a shot at Sheriff Grayson. Now, he’s sending notes and pictures to the media, taunting us, indicating that he has more victims in his sight, so we have to double up security on Grayson, just in case the killer thinks he can finish what he started, and then we need to find this guy. Before he targets and hits someone else.

  “Detectives Alvarez and Pescoli have been leading the investigation and they’ll tell us all where we are.” He spied Jeremy, who was entering the room with a coffeepot and tray of empty cups. Brewster flicked his fingers rapidly in a come-in-quickly gesture and Jeremy, with a sideways look at his mother, set the cups and packets of creamer and sugar onto the table. He positioned the pot in front of Brewster, who pointed to one of the empty cups. As if he’d done it a hundred times, Jeremy poured the coffee for the undersheriff.

  Pescoli felt a little hot under the collar and told herself that she was being ridiculous, that Jeremy asked for and wanted this, that Brewster was not being condescending to her son.

  Still, it bothered her. Jeremy had signed on with the department to help, yes, but to learn about the responsibilities of being a cop, and today he’d been reduced to waiting tables. Maybe that was a good thing; he certainly didn’t have any training to do much more. But still, it seemed demeaning somehow and she couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of Brewster’s plan to humiliate her son.

  “Thanks,” Brewster said as he picked up his cup and other cops poured their own brew.

  Get over it. Jeremy needs this lesson. He has to start at the bottom, learn what it really takes to be a cop. For now, he’s little more than a “go for” volunteer.

  “You go ahead,” she said to Alvarez as they stood to fill everyone in.

  Jeremy started to leave, but Brewster stopped him before he reached the door. “You might want to stay; see how this works,” he said, and waved him into a folding chair situated near an oversized map of the county. Jeremy sidled over to the chair and seemingly self-conscious sat down.

  Pescoli turned her head into the case again. She and Alvarez stood, together, at the table, and Alvarez walked everyone through the investigation, from the moment that Grayson had been shot until this afternoon when Manny Douglas had brought in the plastic bag with its contents.

  The officers around the table listened and sipped coffee, and one or two scribbled notes. Watershed chewed gum thoughtfully, and Zoller used her small tablet computer. For the most part, the officers’ eyes never left Alvarez as she spoke.

  She was wrapping it up. “. . . so we’ll wait for any evidence that can be found on the envelope and keep on running down tips as they come in. We’re looking for a couple of suspects, specifically Maurice Verdago and Vincent Samuels, the brother of the judge.”

  “He’s not actually a suspect,” Pescoli clarified, “but he’s missing and we want to know where he is.” There were a few questions, some discussion among the officers, but in the end, they left the room not knowing any more than they had when they entered.

  Jeremy lingered, cleaning up the coffee cups and gum wrappers, and Pescoli stopped to say, “I’ll see you at home, but it’ll probably be late.”

  “How late?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  She started walking toward her office when Brewster waved her into his. She took one step inside and nearly stumbled. The walls of his office were bare, his desk cleared, boxes stacked in one corner.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m moving into Grayson’s office,” he said matter-of-factly and her stomach nearly hit the floor.

  “Why? Did something happen?” Surely if Grayson had taken a turn for the worse, she would have heard about it.

  “I’ll move back once he can come back to work. But the truth of the matter is, even if he makes a full recovery, it’s going to be weeks, or more likely months, before he’s ready to take over his responsibilities again. Things are pretty tight here already and we’ll need to find a temporary undersheriff, who’ll occupy this office.” He gestured to the interior of the small room he’d claimed for over a decade. “But that’s not why I called you in,” he said, balancing one hip on the corner of his desk. “While Alvarez was explaining the case and talking about Maurice Verdago, I had a little epiphany.”

  “I thought they were always pretty large.”

  He nodded, one side of his mouth curving up. “I suppose. Anyway, did you know that Verdago was a local boy? He grew up around here. Always had a temper, always got into fights, and they kept escalating until he attacked his brother-in-law.”

  “Maybe before. We’re looking into an old cold case. Missing person, presumed dead. Maurice’s name came up.”

  “Oh, right. I remember that. Joey . . . Langly?”

  “Lundeen.”

  “That’s right.” He snapped his fingers.

  “I’ve looked through the files. Nothing solid there. At least at first glance.”

  Brewster frowned. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Verdago always was a hothead and my guess is his temperament didn’t improve much in prison.”

  “So, you knew him personally?” This was news to her. Unsettling news.

  “No, no . . . he’s younger than I am, but my brother knew him, and you know what, Maurice, at one time, was close friends with Vincent Samuels.”

  Pescoli blinked. “The judge’s missing brother.”

  “I think they may have served together in Iraq.”

  In her mind’s eye she saw the sword Cee-Cee Piquard had unwrapped in her home, a sword identical to the one mounted on the wall in Georges Piquard’s den. “I thought Vincent Samuels served with Georges Piquard.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  Brewster was nodding and, as if anticipating her next question, said, “I served with Georges too. We were old friends. But he stayed in longer than I did and that’s when he buddied up with the man who would become his brother-in-law.”

  “And Verdago.”

  “I don’t think they were ever close. Verdago alwa
ys had a mean streak in him.” He shook his head. “You know, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Vincent introduced Kathryn to Georges.” His eyebrows drew together. “I’ll have to ask Bess about that.”

  “I thought Kathryn didn’t get along with her brother.”

  “That was later, I believe.”

  “After he borrowed money from her husband.”

  “Did he?” His eyebrows cocked. “I didn’t know about that.”

  “It caused a rift between Kathryn and Vincent.”

  “I think there were lots of reasons for that,” Brewster said. “Bess has alluded to some of them, but I never paid much attention. It was all just gossip. Until now.”

  “Speaking of your wife,” Pescoli said, “I’d like to talk to her. She was close to the judge and she might know something about her personal life that could help.”

  “Well, okay, of course,” he said, though he frowned and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, “But, I want to warn you, she’s taking this very hard.”

  “I’m sure she’s devastated.”

  “We all are,” he agreed. “The members of the church and Bess especially, but I’ll ask her to come in tomorrow morning. I think she’s free.”

  “Good.” Hoping the judge’s friend could shed some light, Pescoli still had other avenues to follow. The wheels were turning in her mind, faster and faster. Now there was another connection between the judge and Verdago through her brother. It seemed a little flimsy, but still, Verdago had the means, opportunity, and skill. “I think he’s our guy,” she said aloud.

  “Verdago? Good. Then prove it,” Brewster said.

  “I will,” she vowed, knowing in her gut that she was finally on the right track.

  “You know this is a long shot,” Alvarez said once they were nearly to Helena. The trip from Grizzly Falls had taken over two hours, closer to two and a half, and might just turn out to be a wild goose chase. Though snowfall had been light and traffic not all that bad, surprising Wanda Verdago might not be worth all the trouble, but Pescoli, as usual, had the bit in her teeth and man, oh, man was she going to run with it.

  “Long shots sometimes solve cases.” Pescoli squinted through her windshield, searching for the turnoff from US 12, a mile west of Helena. The night was clear enough on this stretch of road to see the lights of the city washing up to the night-black sky.

  “I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up.” Alvarez’s cell phone chirped and she answered.

  “It’s Sage,” Zoller said on the other end of the connection. “I finally ran down Judge Samuels-Piquard’s lawyer and got a copy of the will. He wasn’t very happy about it as it was so late and all, but one of his junior associates was still working, so he had the guy take a copy and e-mail it to me.”

  “And?”

  “It’s pretty straightforward. Almost everything goes to her son, Winston, with a couple hundred grand set aside for her grandkids’ college tuition.”

  “So now he can afford the upwardly mobile move into that tony new neighborhood,” Alvarez said.

  Pescoli shot her a look. “The will?”

  With a quick nod to Pescoli, she said into the phone, “What else?”

  “There’s a list of charities, including the college where she graduated from law school. That combined together for another hundred grand,” Sage said.

  “Must be nice to be able to spread it around,” Alvarez said. “Anything else?”

  “Yep, here’s the kicker: Seems as if the judge had more property than we knew. There’s the lake house, where she went every Christmas, but there’s also another property, not far down the road from the place she vacationed. I’ve got the address, and it, along with a monthly distribution of fifteen hundred dollars for life, unless her money runs out, goes to her brother, Vincent Gregory Samuels.”

  Alvarez felt that little tingle she always did when a case was coming together.

  “I forwarded a copy of it to your e-mail account, as well as Pescoli’s. That is, as they say, ‘all she wrote.’ ”

  “It’s enough.” Alvarez hung up.

  “The judge’s will?” Pescoli asked.

  “That’s right,” Alvarez said and filled her in as they drove the final few miles to Wanda Verdago’s apartment.

  “So Vincent’s in play. I knew it when he disappeared,” she said, guiding her Jeep to an area of apartment buildings. “We need to send someone out there.”

  “I’ll text Rule. See if he’s available.”

  Alvarez was just finishing the text when Pescoli said, “Here we go. Now, which one is it?”

  “Right here.” Alvarez pointed to a two-story building that looked a lot like a motel straight out of the seventies. Barely lit, a sign announced that they’d reached the Aspen Grove Apartments. With staircases on either end of a long porch facing the parking lot, the units were delineated by doors surrounded by a large plate-glass window on one side and two smaller windows on the other. Cookie-cutter apartments. The Verdago unit was on the second floor, so they parked next to a black SUV with plates indicating it belonged to Wanda Verdago. As Alvarez stepped out of the warm interior of the Jeep she was hit by a blast of cold, subfreezing air that seemed to cut through her thick jacket.

  Thankfully the parking lot was clear of snow and ice, but the asphalt was cracked, several potholes gouged into the surface, and the paint on the trim of the building was peeling. The few shrubs that were the complex’s meager attempt at landscaping were still dusted with snow and shivered in the breeze.

  Pescoli led the way as they climbed the exterior staircase and rapped loudly on the screen door of Unit 212.

  No response.

  But it felt as if someone was home. Though the curtains of the largest window facing the porch were drawn, there was a thin gap between the panels, just enough space for the flickering blue light of a television to pass through.

  Pescoli pounded again, more determinedly.

  This time, she got a response.

  “Coming!” a raspy voice called from inside the unit as the sound of frantic tread reached Alvarez’s ears.

  “I hope there’s no back exit,” she said.

  “Probably only a second-story window,” Pescoli said.

  “Swear to God, Joe and I had an apartment that was identical to these when we were first married.” Nonetheless, Alvarez jogged back down the stairs and took a peek behind the building to find out that her partner was right, there wasn’t even a small back deck for the upper units or patio for the lower ones.

  Perfect.

  She hurried up the stairs again and heard Pescoli pound on the door for a third time. By the time she reached the door, Pescoli had already fished her badge from her pocket and the irritated voice from within called, “Hold on to your damned horses, will ya?”

  The door opened and a heavyset woman wearing too much makeup and too little clothing stood on the other side of the screen door. Her white-blond hair was a wild tangle, her mascara thick and clumping, shiny green shadow shimmering on her eyelids, the rest of her face washed out and pale. Struggling into a bathrobe that was two sizes too small in an effort to hide the fact that she’d been lounging in a nearly see-through T-shirt and underwear, she was already talking as the door swung wide. “Whatever it is you’re peddling, I don’t want—oh, shit!” She looked up just as she tried to cinch the gaping terrycloth together with a tie and saw their badges. “Now what?”

  Quickly they introduced themselves, and Pescoli asked if she was Wanda Verdago, though they’d seen her picture enough times to make a visual ID. “Well, yeah, I’m her, but what the hell do you want with me? I already talked to the cops.”

  “I know, but we have a few more questions.”

  “About that shithead Maurice?” she asked, her features pulling together into a knot of distaste. “God damn, I regret the day I met that son of a bitch.”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Hell, no!” she said automatically, then seemed to think better of it. �
�Oh, crap. Sure. Why not? Just give me a sec, would ya?” And before they could answer, she closed the door, locked it, and left them on the concrete porch that connected four units and where a scrawny fake fir tree sat in a plastic pot, decorated in lights that didn’t so much as twinkle.

  Wanda appeared a few minutes later, her blondish curls clipped away from her pale face, navy sweatpants and an oversized striped shirt replacing the pajamas. She was still barefoot, her toenails shining a deep holiday red. “Come on in and excuse the mess,” she said, unlatching the door and leading them past a small entry hall and into the living room where a shag rug from somewhere south of 1972 had been stretched across the floor and shampooed so often the burnt orange had faded to a dull, hairy apricot tone. Judging by the rolling lumps in the carpet near the hallway, it was in serious need of another stretch at the very least. The house smelled of microwave popcorn, and a few tiny white kernels were visible on a dusty table where a solitary green candle burned but did little to cover up the buttery odor.

  “I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you want to know,” she said, dropping onto a corner of a once-sleek couch where the cushion definitely sagged, indicating she’d plopped into her favorite spot. An aluminum tree dominated one corner of the room, a flat-screen TV placed opposite the sofa.

  “Well, that would help,” Pescoli admitted.

  She snorted through her nose, a sound of disgust. As Pescoli and Alvarez took seats in the two floral occasional chairs, Wanda cast a rueful glance at the television, then plucked a remote from the coffee table and paused some game show.

  “Do you have any idea where he’d go?” Alvarez asked.

  “I wish! But ten to one he’s with that slut Carnie Tibalt.” Her face looked as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “I can’t believe it. Gave him the best damned years of my life, wait for that cocksucker to get out of prison, and what does he start doing but bang that cunt of a waitress from the Long Branch.”

  “You don’t have any idea where he’d go?” Alvarez tried again.