Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “But not the father of Destiny’s infant.”

  “Glenn’s not ready to acknowledge that.”

  “Even though you can’t argue with science.”

  “Tell that to the creationists.”

  Snorting her agreement, Pescoli snagged her keys again. “Let’s go have a chat with Kywin Bell. Lara Haas claimed he was protective of Destiny Montclaire, so I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  “You think he might have been involved with her?”

  “Or know who was.” She was on her feet again and stopped dead in her tracks as a cramp rolled through her abdomen. As it passed, she leaned against the desk. “Whoa.”

  “You okay?” Alvarez asked, her eyes dark with instant concern.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Letting out a long breath, she said, “Braxton Hicks. I had ’em with both the other kids.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Which everyone keeps reminding me.” The contraction eased, and she straightened. Without missing a beat, she grabbed her sidearm, and together they walked outside.

  “I’ll drive,” Alvarez said and for once Pescoli didn’t argue. She’d had enough arguing last night when the discussion with Luke, Michelle, and Bianca had gotten hot and escalated in the parking lot of the Sons of Grizzly Falls building. Luke seemed to think Bianca’s opportunity to be a part of the reality show was akin to finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  “Think of the money she could make. God, Regan, it might pay for her college. Maybe that’s not a big deal for you, but I’m not a rich man and any little bit helps.”

  As if he’d paid for any damned thing since their divorce. They shared custody, and that appeared to mean that Regan shouldered all of the bills. But Luke was on the hook for college—that had been written in the divorce decree—and so, of course, he was squirming, trying to get out of it.

  “Or starring in this reality show could be the start of something, maybe launch an acting career,” Michelle had piped up, a bit of envy in her words.

  “Why wouldn’t you want her to do it?” Jeremy had asked. He’d shown up late for the meeting, but had added his two cents.

  Only Santana hadn’t argued with her, just kept his silence as Bianca wheedled, “Mom, I want to do it. Come on. What would it hurt?”

  That was it. She didn’t know, but it had just felt wrong to her. Still did, she thought, as she stared through the Subaru’s bug-splattered window at a line of clouds, thick and white, slowly inching across the blue Montana sky.

  She and Alvarez continued to discuss the case on the way to the feed store, tossing out names of suspects and coming back to the big question mark that had eluded them: Who had Destiny Rose gone to meet, if anyone, on the evening of her disappearance? As far as they knew, Donny Justison was the last person to have seen her alive and therefore was still at the top of the suspect list.

  They discussed potential motives for Destiny’s murder. If the girl hadn’t been killed by a random nutcase in a situation where she’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, which seemed remote, then it was someone who knew her. The obvious motive was that she was pregnant. If the pregnancy wasn’t the reason she was killed, then why?

  Destiny didn’t have any money, no trust fund. She had no known enemies, at least none that had surfaced yet, so that brought them back to the fact that she was with child.

  “Maybe her cell phone records will give us a clue,” Alvarez said. “There was some kind of hiccup with getting them to us, but they’re supposed to be in today.”

  “What about her laptop?”

  “Zoller’s going through it as we speak.”

  “Good. I gave her another assignment. Because she’s a card-carrying member of the Big Foot Believers, I asked her to check out who could have made off with the missing Sasquatch costume.”

  “Let’s hope we catch a break.”

  The drive only took about fifteen minutes, as the feed store where Kywin Bell worked was only a few miles from the station, past the sprawl of strip malls and fast-food restaurants in the newer section of town.

  Alvarez pulled into a two-tiered asphalt parking lot. The commercial part of the store was located on the upper level and faced the pockmarked asphalt lot. The lower level serviced farmers who came for truckloads of feed and heavier equipment.

  Pickups, flatbeds, vans, and a couple of sedans were parked haphazardly in the upper lot. If there had been any lines delineating parking spaces, they had long since faded.

  The building itself was built of concrete blocks and had obviously been constructed for function rather than form. While the Sons of Grizzly Falls building was ornate, this one was stark. A metal awning ran across the front of the structure, shading the large windows and glass doors guarded by pallets of bark dust, peat moss, and sand.

  Pescoli and Alvarez made their way inside, where the air seemed dusty despite the efforts of fans mounted high overhead. The only cashier at the front register was a man of twenty or so, whose dark hair was clipped so short his scalp showed through, and whose thick beard was long enough to boast two little rat tails that had been braided beneath his chin. He offered them a smile as they approached and asked if he could help.

  The smile faded as they identified themselves, showed their badges, and asked about Kywin Bell.

  “He’s in back. Loading,” the cashier, whose name tag read BRYCE, said. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously and Pescoli wondered if he had something to hide, or if police officers in general sent him into overdrive. “I’ll show you the way.”

  Quickly, head down, he ushered them along a wide center aisle that passed through sections dedicated to a variety of pets. They walked past stacks of bags of dry dog and cat food and shelves where dog toys, leashes, and collars had been suspended.

  Through the pet area, they headed into another section dedicated to farm animals. Pescoli saw salt licks and saddles, veterinary and grooming supplies, pails and feedbags before Bryce showed them a staircase that looked to be a hundred years old. “Kywin’s down there,” he said. “In the grain depot.” He looked over his shoulder to the front of the store. “I got to get back to the register.”

  “We can handle it from here,” Alvarez assured him as they started down the steps.

  “Okay.” He hurried off.

  “You know this kid, right?” Alvarez said. She paused on the bottom step to glance back at Pescoli, who was easing her way down the final stairs.

  “Yeah, since preschool.”

  “And?”

  “He was always a bully. One of two of Frank Bell’s sons. Bell has been in and out of jail himself. Domestic violence. Of the two boys, Kywin, the younger, is probably more law abiding, but that isn’t setting the bar all that high.”

  The stairwell opened to an expansive area that was complete with loading dock. All of the barn doors had been thrown wide, and a forklift was parked in one corner. Pallet after pallet of grain was stacked against each other: wheat, oats, barley, and corn. Inside an adjacent area, bales of straw, hay, and alfalfa were kept dry.

  A small forklift carrying a single pallet piled with bags of some kind of grain slowly rounded the corner. Kywin Bell, wearing a hard hat, was at the controls and concentrating as he pulled into the covered area and carefully lowered the pallet into place, then backed up.

  Alvarez flagged him down and he stopped, leaving the forklift to idle. Alvarez had to shout over the rumble of the engine, and Kywin, appearing to want to flee, glared at her. She identified herself, as did Pescoli. “We need to talk to you.”

  “I’m working,” he called loudly.

  “Only take a few minutes,” Alvarez yelled back.

  He scowled. “Give me a sec.” He backed the forklift to a spot near the larger one, cut the engine, and hopped onto the dusty concrete. “This has to do with Destiny.” It was a statement rather than a question, but Alvarez answered anyway. “Yes.”

  He tossed his hard hat onto the seat of the forklift and glanced around. Spy
ing a string bean of a man sweeping near an open bin of corn, he yelled, “Hey, Zach. I’m taking five.”

  “Already?” The tall guy stopped pushing his broom and squinted.

  “Won’t be long.” Bell glanced at Alvarez and said more softly, “Right?”

  “Shouldn’t,” she agreed.

  “Good. This way.”

  Pescoli had expected him to lead them inside, into some kind of break room. Instead, he strode outside, where the sun was already climbing high, beating down through the scanty clouds. He rounded a corner of the building, to the side road that connected this lower part of the business to the parking lot above. The road was chewed-up asphalt, cracked and dusty. A retaining wall ran along its length, up the steep slope. Here, at the bottom, Kywin hoisted himself easily onto a half wall and reached into his T-shirt pocket, withdrawing a pack of Camel cigarettes and a lighter. He lit up and blew smoke toward the sky. “What do you want to know?”

  “How involved were you with Destiny Rose Montclaire?”

  “Shit.” Another drag, then he turned his hands, palms up, the tip of his cigarette clenched between two fingers as it smoldered upside down. “We were friends, okay?”

  “Good friends?”

  “I already told this to some cop that night. Last Saturday. At Reservoir Point.”

  “Detective Zoller.”

  “That’s the one. Little. Like Destiny.” He studied the smoke trailing from his Camel.

  Alvarez nodded, her black hair glistening in the morning light. “I’ve seen Detective Zoller’s notes.”

  “Then you know I had nothing to do with what happened to Destiny.” He was sweating, hat ring visible in his short-cropped hair. “I liked her. I wouldn’t hurt her.” He paused thoughtfully. “Never.”

  Was he lying? Pescoli couldn’t tell. She stepped closer, noticed that he was swinging his legs, his heavy work boots as dusty as everything else. And huge. “Some people claim you were her protector, that you stepped in when she and Donald Justison got into it.”

  “I didn’t like him knocking her around. Donny’s a mean drunk and she is . . . she was just a bit of a thing. Didn’t seem right. Even though she never seemed afraid of him, didn’t mind going at him, y’know? Setting him off.” He squinted in the harshness of the morning light, took a final pull on his Camel, and tossed it into the dirt.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I told you all. I can’t really remember. A day or two before she went missing, I guess. A bunch of us were at the diner and she came in.”

  “What diner?” Alvarez asked.

  “Midway Diner.”

  “You and who else?” Alvarez pressed.

  “Donny. TJ and Alex O’Hara and Kip, I think. Oh, and Tophman. Bryant Tophman. He was there, too, a little later. Came with Reece and Devlin.”

  “Austin Reece and Rod Devlin?” Pescoli clarified.

  “Yeah.”

  Alvarez gave a quick nod. “The whole gang.”

  “Most of us,” he agreed as a crow lit in a scrag of tree nearby and cawed loudly. “Is there anything else? I’ve really got to get back to work. I need this job.”

  “Just another couple of quick questions. Is there any chance you’re the father of Destiny’s baby?” Alvarez asked.

  Kywin’s lips tightened. “I said we were friends. I didn’t say we were friends with benefits.” When neither cop responded, he added, “We didn’t get it on, okay? Maybe made out a couple of times, but no. Definitely not the father. I thought Donny took a DNA test.”

  Alvarez ducked that with, “We’re just ruling out everyone. So, you wouldn’t mind giving a sample?”

  “A sample?” He shook his head vehemently.

  “Saliva,” Pescoli assured him.

  “Oh.” He let out a breath and fished in his pocket for another cigarette. “I thought you meant . . .”

  “Yeah, I know what you thought,” she said and smiled inwardly that Kywin had freaked a little at the thought of having to give a sperm sample. Pescoli didn’t like him. Never had. Too cocky.

  “No way that kid is mine.”

  “Easy to prove.” Pescoli was tired and hot, the back of her blouse starting to stick to her. “Come to the station, give a sample. Do it today.”

  “I work,” he complained. As if the rest of the citizens of the world didn’t hold down jobs. The crow, still giving out raw cries, flew off.

  “That’s the beauty of the sheriff’s department,” Pescoli said. “We’re open twenty-four-seven.” She eyed him through her shades. “Who do you think could be the father?”

  “Donny.”

  “Anyone else?”

  He screwed up his face. “Destiny . . . got around.”

  Pescoli pushed. “So give me another name.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes. “How the hell would I know?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re her friend. Her ‘pro-tector.’”

  “I wasn’t her protector. I never called myself anything like that, okay? If I was her damned protector, I did a pretty lousy job of it, didn’t I? She’s dead.” An emotion Pescoli couldn’t name passed behind his eyes. He ran a hand over his head and swiped the beading sweat from his forehead. “Destiny could have hooked up with anybody. She was . . . kinda desperate, put up with Donny’s shit and didn’t like it when he started dating some chick in college, but hell, she wasn’t exactly true-blue, if ya know what I mean.” He jabbed the second cigarette into his mouth and flicked his lighter to the tip, drawing deeply.

  Pescoli asked, “So where were you a week ago Friday night?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just hangin’ out.” He stared at them through the rising smoke. “Is that when . . . when she died?”

  “Was killed,” Pescoli reminded him. “Give us a recap of your weekend.”

  “I didn’t kill her!”

  “Well, come up with someone else besides Donny.”

  “When are you gonna get Donny’s results back?”

  Pescoli just shrugged, waiting.

  “Well . . . a week ago Friday, I don’t know. Uh . . . oh yeah, I was with Kip, for a while, Friday night, then later I went over to Reece’s. It was Triple Pool Night, that’s what we call it. We do a little betting, pool our money for lottery tickets, then play pool. We go there a lot of Friday nights. Reece’s dad has a bitchin’ rec room.”

  “With a bar?” Pescoli asked.

  “Well, yeah, I guess, but they also have a swimming pool with a hot tub and waterfall. It’s cool. We were there all night. Crashed and got up around eleven, I think.”

  “Everyone was there all night?” Pescoli asked.

  “I think so. Like I said, I crashed.”

  “But when you woke up, the same people were there.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Just Reece, of course, in his room and, uh, Tophman, I think—no wait, he had to get back. His dad’s a prick.”

  “The minister?” Pescoli had met Reverend Raymond Tophman at various community events, starting with the Good Feelings Preschool years before.

  He snorted. “Some minister.”

  “What’s wrong with Reverend Tophman?” Pescoli asked. She had her own feelings about the severely strict man, but wanted to hear Kywin’s.

  “Doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that it’s okay to hit a kid or whale on him or something?”

  Before Pescoli could respond, Alvarez said, “There’s an old proverb, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child,’ but I think the actual translation from the Bible, book of Proverbs, is a little more precise. It suggests that you need to discipline your children.”

  “Well, whatever. The preacher is all in his kid’s business. If I were Tophman, I’d move out.”

  “What about the rest of the weekend?”

  “I had chores. I always have chores. My old man doesn’t care that I work my ass off all week, so I mowed the lawn, cut brush. A lot of fun stuff like that.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “You can check with him.
”

  “You live with your father?”

  He squinted against the cigarette smoke. “Things didn’t work out with Mom. She’s got younger kids and thinks Kip and I, we should be on our own.” He scowled slightly, and it was obvious to Pescoli that Kywin thought he’d been given a raw deal in life. Maybe he had.

  Alvarez asked, “Did Destiny have any known enemies?”

  His big shoulders lifted into a shrug. His neck was thick, his entire body fit and packed with sinewy muscle, not the long muscles of a basketball player, but the shorter, denser muscles of a running back in football or a wrestler. “The girls were always fighting. Besties with this one for a week, then hatin’ on her the next. Weird as shit, if ya ask me.”

  “Anyone in particular who didn’t like her?”

  “Nah . . . well, I did hear that Simone and she didn’t get along all the time.”

  “Simone Delaney,” Alvarez clarified.

  “But Simone’s a bitch.” He took a deep drag and threw a glance over his shoulder to look at the loading area, where String Bean and another guy, older and with a big gut, were in discussion. “They fought a lot. At school and, I guess, at work.”

  “They worked together?”

  “Volunteered at the same hospital, or somethin’. Oh, shit. Look, I gotta go.” With that, he hopped off the wall and dropped his second cigarette, crushing it with the toe of one huge boot.

  “What size shoes do you wear?” Pescoli asked as a flatbed truck turned from the upper parking lot and rumbled down the steep road, kicking up dust, the driver giving them a quick once-over from inside the cab.

  “Fuck! That’s my boss.”

  “About your shoe size?”

  “I don’t know. Thirteen. Sometimes a fourteen. A real bitch to find some that fit.” With that, he was off, jogging back to the overhang of the building where the truck was parking. The driver climbed out and stood with his hands on his hips, his face turned toward Alvarez and Pescoli. From his expression, Pescoli guessed he was none too happy. He turned to watch Kywin jog back to the shed.