by Lisa Jackson
He took her hands in his and asked tenderly, “Regan Pescoli, will you marry me?”
“I can’t wait,” she whispered, her heart soaring as the weight of the decision lifted, all of her doubts scattering to the four winds. “And, let me tell you this, Santana. I’m serious about this, okay? This time it’s forever. So don’t even think about backing out of the marriage. Otherwise I might just have to shoot you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he vowed.
“I’m dead serious when it comes to the ‘till death do us part.’ ”
“Then let’s hope that death parting us is a long way off.” Before she could say another word, he kissed her as if he meant every promise, his lips molding to hers, his arms surrounding her as they rolled as one onto the floor. Melting against him, hearing the steady beat of his heart, in counterpoint to her own, she told herself this was the right decision, that nothing bad would ever happen to them, that they would be together forever.
“Make love to me,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.
Outside the wind began to howl, the storm suddenly intensifying, and with the instant rush of wind, the fire flashed brighter for a second.
Feeling her body respond to his touch, she told herself that they would make love until they were breathless, that they would love each other until they got old, that time was not racing through the hourglass, and that something dark and horrifying did not lie in wait.
But deep beneath the surface of all of her hopes and dreams, under the bravado and self-confidence that she forever called up and in a place she barely acknowledged, she knew that she was lying to herself, that somewhere the patient, but relentless angel of death was simply biding his time.
Chapter 27
“I just don’t understand why I’m here,” Bess Brewster said for the second time since dropping into one of the visitor’s chairs in what was now Brewster’s office, though there were still boxes stacked in one corner, all clearly marked in bold black marker: PROPERTY OF SHERIFF DANIEL GRAYSON.
It all seemed so wrong, almost surreal, Alvarez thought. Seated in another visitor’s chair next to Bess, with Brewster now firmly in Grayson’s old executive chair situated on the other side of the desk, she’d already asked a few preliminary questions and Mrs. Brewster was not happy about it.
Trim and petite, Bess was in her late forties and just beginning to show the signs of middle age. A few wrinkles fanned from intense blue eyes, a little sag was visible under her chin, and gray hairs that she hadn’t yet decided to disguise were visible in her no-nonsense bob of thick blond hair. No doubt, she’d been a head-turning beauty in her youth.
Just like her daughters, Alvarez thought, scanning a few of the photographs arranged on Brewster’s newly claimed credenza. Four daughters, all blond, like their mother, all blooming into beautiful women. A picture of Heidi was front and center, Cort Brewster’s youngest, the one he referred to as his “princess” and clearly the prettiest. In the photo she was dressed in a long, strapless gown in a shimmery aqua fabric, and tucked into her sun-streaked hair was a glittering tiara, as if indeed she were royalty, if only prom princess.
“I’m your wife, Cort, not some common criminal or suspect,” she said, obviously agitated. Her spine was stiff, two points of color showing on her high cheekbones.
“Bess, honey, it’s just standard procedure. You know that. All of Kathy’s friends and family are being questioned.” Hooking a thumb at his chest, he said, “Even me. And I’m the sheriff.”
Acting sheriff, Alvarez thought silently.
“It was bad enough two weeks ago, having to explain about your gun,” she complained. “All those questions. As if I knew what had happened to it.”
Brewster said to Alvarez, “A rifle was stolen from the house. Probably kids.”
“Not any kids the girls associate with!” Bess jumped in. Then, looking at Alvarez, she said, “Someone broke into the basement, but that door never locks properly.” She shot her husband a damning look. “It was supposed to be repaired months ago.”
“Bess, stop. It’s been fixed now. All that was taken was the rifle and an old laptop in the basement. They didn’t even bother looking for the shells.”
“If you’d ever clean out all that stuff down there . . . you’re lucky they didn’t get into your college things or all that military memorabilia you have stashed away. Cort, it’s been years.”
“Bess, enough. I’ll work on it.” To Alvarez, he reaffirmed, “It was probably kids from the neighborhood. I reported it.”
“Has the rifle been found?” she asked him.
“No.” He shook his head. “Remington .30-06.”
“The same caliber as the weapon used in the attacks on Grayson and Samuels-Piquard.”
“What?” Bess gasped. “Oh, no. You don’t think . . .” Her eyes rounded. “Would someone have stolen your gun, Cort, and then used it to kill Kathy?”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” he said, but obviously from the worried look in his eyes, it had crossed his mind, if only fleetingly.
“Stranger things have happened,” Alvarez said, making a note.
“I suppose, though I hate to think that some kid—” Brewster started.
Bess broke in, “You don’t know who broke in and neither do I. Maybe it wasn’t a kid, but a criminal, the kind that would go out and shoot an innocent woman!”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” To Alvarez, he said, “Check it out. I filed the report with Chas Aiken in Theft, about five weeks ago.”
“It was the Friday after Thanksgiving,” Bess clarified.
“You’re right,” he agreed.
With a sigh, Bess said, “Let’s just get on with this.”
Brewster turned his attention to Alvarez once again. “I think we can keep this short.” An order. Not a question.
“We’re just trying to learn a little more about the judge’s life,” Alvarez said to Brewster’s wife.
“From me?” With a questioning gaze to her husband, Bess said, “Kathy and I were close, but really, she was a very private person. This whole thing is awful. Just awful! I just don’t see how I can help.” Her fingers played with the collar of her prim jacket for the third or fourth time since being seated, and realizing she was fiddling, she quickly folded her hands in her lap, forcing a smile.
She hates this, Alvarez decided. “Do you know if the judge was seeing anyone?”
“You mean dating? You think I would know that?” She shot another disbelieving glance across the desk at her husband. “If Kathy had a boyfriend, or was dating someone, I didn’t know about it.”
“She’d been on a dating service.”
“Really. Well, she never brought a man with her to any of the church functions. The last one I saw her with, at least romantically, was Georges.”
“What can you tell me about her family?”
She thought for a moment. “I know her parents are gone, her brother and she don’t speak much. Her son and granddaughter were close with her, though I’m not really sure about the daughter-in-law. Cee-Cee and Winston never attended church or Bible study despite repeated invitations by our minister and several of the elders. Cort, you talked to Win once or twice, didn’t you?” she asked, her neatly plucked brows drawing together.
The acting sheriff rotated his hands, turning his palms toward the ceiling. “Probably. I don’t remember specifics if I did.”
“There’s just nothing more I know about her.” Bess touched her collar again. “I’ll help with the funeral arrangements when the time comes.” She glanced at her husband pointedly. “I hear the body hasn’t been released.”
“Today,” he said.
“Oh, that’s good. The ladies of the church are helping with the gathering afterward, coordinating the service with the meal. We’re expecting quite a crowd.” She actually seemed more interested in the ceremony than her friend’s death.
As if she’d read Alvarez’s thoughts, she frowned slightly an
d said, “A lot of people knew and respected Kathy. We have a big job on our hands.”
Alvarez asked a few more questions, but Bess didn’t offer up anything further on the judge’s private life. “Did she ever mention the sheriff?” Alvarez finally asked.
“Cort?” She turned to her husband. “Just in casual conversation, asking me what we were doing.”
“She’s asking about Grayson,” Brewster said tautly.
“Oh. Oh.” She flushed as she realized her gaffe. “No, not that I remember. They knew each other, of course, but how well? I have no idea.”
“No romance between them?” Alvarez asked.
“Kathy and Dan? I don’t think so. I suppose it was possible, but he’s not a member of the church.”
“Meaning?” Alvarez questioned.
“Well, it’s just that I don’t see Kathy seriously dating anyone outside the congregation. Georges, you know, was a very devout man.” She was nodding, her eyes again on her husband, her fingers toying with her collar once more. “An elder. Like Cort.” She turned her gaze to Alvarez. “Is there anything else? I promised Heidi I’d take her shopping this afternoon. She has some Christmas presents she wants to exchange. Teenage girls, you know. They live and breathe on their phones and make ‘shop till you drop’ their mantra.”
“Yeah, we’re done here,” Brewster said and Alvarez silently agreed. If Bess Brewster knew anything important about her deceased friend, she wasn’t offering it up.
“If you think of anything that might help, or you may have forgotten—” Alvarez began.
Bess cut her off with, “Really, I’ve told you everything. I can’t help you any more. You just need to find her murderer and put him away.” Again she glanced at her husband.
“We will,” he promised.
“Oh, I have faith,” Bess said, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her long, black coat trimmed in a silvery fur that was most likely mink. Make that a dead mink. Into PETA, Mrs. Brewster obviously was not. She’d grabbed her purse and was heading for the door before Cort could scoot his chair out, round the desk, and assist her. “Even if you don’t find him,” she was saying as she paused to pull on a pair of long, black gloves, “God will punish that man. Make no mistake. Judgment Day will come.”
With her final declaration of divine wrath, Bess marched out of Grayson’s old office, her pumps slapping against the tile floor in rapid, staccato steps as Brewster followed, hurrying to catch up to her.
Alvarez was left with a weird feeling, as if she’d missed something important, though she wasn’t sure why. It was probably due to the odd, out-of-sync vibe between Brewster and his wife, and Alvarez guessed it wasn’t anything good. It didn’t help that conducting an interview in Grayson’s office, while he was still unresponsive in a hospital bed, felt more than a little strange as well, as if she were already walking on his grave.
“Hi, Mrs. Brewster!” Jeremy’s voice rang out and Alvarez quickly walked into the hallway.
“Jeremy,” Bess responded, her voice as icy as the day outside, her footsteps never once breaking stride. A cold fish was Bess Brewster, and one who obviously had no use for her daughter’s boyfriend.
The acting sheriff didn’t respond, but within a second or two, Jeremy looking back over his shoulder, nearly ran into Alvarez. “Oh, sorry. I was just going into this office.”
“You have clean-up duties?” she guessed.
“They’re putting the sheriff’s stuff in storage.” He walked in and picked up two boxes, then returned to the hallway, catching up with Alvarez as she headed to her own office. When she peeled off, he went on past her.
Alvarez exhaled heavily as she sat down at her desk. She’d received a text from Rule, who’d been unable to drive up to the cabin and see if Vincent Samuels resided there. Too much new snow and a ton of traffic problems that the deputy had needed to attend to first. Maybe it was just as well. She and Pescoli could drive up there later.
So far, the day had been a bust. Brewster’s wife hadn’t given her any more information than she’d retrieved from her interview with Donna Goodwin. This morning Donna had just been finishing cleaning the Millers’ house when Alvarez had caught up with her, but everything she said was just a confirmation of what they already knew. Pushing fifty, Donna was short, compact, and wiry. Her hair had been clipped into a close-cut buzz that made her appear mannish, and though the temperature was in the teens, she was wearing cargo shorts and a tight-fitting thermal shirt.
The problem was that she only cleaned the judge’s house once every two weeks and rarely spoke to the woman who’d hired her. She knew of no family problems or boyfriends, and agreed the judge had kept a calendar, though Donna had never paid much attention to it. She thought it was for doctor’s appointments and the like. As for the fireplace in the den, “It was spotless when I left it, the week before Christmas. Fact is, I’ve never seen any ashes in there. She doesn’t use it.” She’d seemed genuinely sad as she’d loaded her cleaning supplies and canister vacuum into her hatchback and driven away.
Alvarez had hoped Velma Miller could fill in the blanks, but the judge’s little round neighbor hadn’t been much help either. The interview in the Millers’ parlor off the foyer lasted all of half an hour. Velma wanted to help, but she, like so many others of the judge’s friends, knew very little about her personal life.
Alvarez asked if Velma had seen anything suspicious or odd in the neighborhood, and the little round woman had shaken her head slowly. “Not really. Every once in a while I would see a car over at Kathy’s that I couldn’t place, but she was a judge, you know, had a lot of friends . . . I didn’t think anything of it.”
“What kind of car?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A smaller one, sedan . . . kind of a goldish beige color. I think they call it champagne or something just as highbrow and silly, but like I said, it was probably someone from her work or the church.”
“Have you ever seen anyone just hanging out? Watching the judge’s house?”
She actually laughed. “You’ve been talking to Claudia Dubois, haven’t you? Claudia’s imagination is wild at times. I mean wild. I’ve heard about the stalker, but as many times as I look out upon the park, and it’s often, as I knit right here in this room, by the window, I’ve never seen the man she described or anyone remotely suspicious.”
Alvarez had walked to the window to stand near a well-worn rocker with a basket of yarn beside it. Peering through the glass, she said, “Mrs. Dubois said he stood under that tree. Maybe you couldn’t see him from your angle. The tree could block it?”
“Well, maybe, but you do know that Claudia isn’t always . . . clear.”
“We talked to her husband.”
“Oh, the doctor.” She sobered a little. “It’s sad, you know. At one time Claudia Dubois was the smartest woman I knew.”
Now, as she paused in the doorway to her office, Alvarez dragged her mind from the interviews and responded to a text on her cell phone from O’Keefe, firming up plans to meet later.
Joelle came hurrying along the hallway, stopping momentarily to peek into the sheriff’s office. “Oh, I don’t like this at all,” she said with a shake of her blond bouffant. She shook a long-nailed finger at Alvarez, as if she were to blame for the recent departmental changes. “Sheriff Grayson is coming back, you mark my words. It’s just going to take time. Some people around here just jump the gun, if you know what I mean!” And then she was off, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her expression as perturbed as Alvarez had ever seen it. For the first time since joining the department, she was on the same wavelength as the receptionist.
Sage Zoller was practically beaming when she dropped into Pescoli’s office two hours later. “Who said persistence never pays off?”
“What have you got?” Pescoli asked, frustrated as ever. Her stomach growled loudly and her neck ached from bending over the computer, searching reports and maps of the county for hours. A jumble of files was strewn across her desk: papers in
disarray in her in-basket; various pictures of her kids; a half-full coffee cup placed an inch from a supersized cup of soda with a straw that was flattened by chew marks. She’d learned that Rule hadn’t made it to the cabin where they assumed Vincent Samuels was, and she was ready to yank Alvarez out of the station and get out there.
“I struck out with the dating service, matchmadein-heaven. com. Those people take their privacy very seriously, let me tell you. I finally got some information on the judge, though. She used the site but hadn’t logged on in over a year. If she connected with someone there, they’ve moved off the site. It looks like a bust to me.”
Pescoli glanced at the clock on the wall. “What was that about persistence?”
“Look what I just got from Nettie in Traffic.” She slapped a grainy photograph onto the desk, stacking it on an uneven pile of papers.
Pescoli stared at the image impatiently at first, then leaned closer. It was a photo from one of the traffic cameras in the city. In the shot, a white van was streaking by, two people inside the cab. “Carnie Tibalt’s van?” she guessed, her pulse speeding up.
“Looks like it, though the plate is obscured.”
“The driver. Son of a bitch. That’s Verdago!” For the first time in days, she felt a surge of excitement. Finally, some of their hard work was paying off. “Where was this taken?” she demanded, noting the camera location.
“North of town, at the junction heading into the mountains.” Sage folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the door. “On the road that leads up into the hills, the main county line where all the spurs break off.”
“Toward Elk Basin,” Pescoli said, already ahead of her.
“That dead-end road where the judge’s cabin is.”
“Monarch,” Pescoli said, but her mind was scrambling ahead. If Vincent Samuels was at the cabin, maybe that’s where his old buddy Maurice Verdago was heading. “Take a look at this,” she told Zoller as she pushed aside her half-drunk coffee and soft drink, and flipped through several maps she’d printed off the Internet. After all of the dead ends with Grayson’s ex-wives and searching for a disgruntled boyfriend of the judge, she finally could see the path. “Here we go,” she said, a thrill of adrenaline tickling her blood.
