Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  The whole scene smacked of being staged, and that little niggle of suspicion she’d felt earlier in Lara’s hospital room grew. Something about Lara’s encounter with Big Foot and her injuries was way off.

  The doors opened again, and this time Lara’s parents, Arletta and Nelson, headed outside, each carrying some of Lara’s belongings or other vases of flowers. If ever there were a mother/daughter resemblance, it was visited on the Haas women. Both were blond, buxom, and beautiful, though Lara, possibly because of Nelson’s genes, was a few inches taller than her tiny mother. In pressed chinos and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Nelson was built like a runner, lanky and slim, thinning reddish hair brushed to disguise a growing bald spot.

  Hadn’t Lara said her parents had split?

  Now, perhaps brought together by their daughter’s trauma, they seemed friendly enough, surely more than cordial, as they tended to Lara, talked to the reporter and Sphinx. Then, after about five minutes, all left together in the same sporty white Mercedes.

  “Show’s over,” she said as she unlocked her Jeep and levered herself into the warm interior. “Highlights at eleven.”

  She headed into the office, where she found, on her desk, a new ceramic mug decorated with a huge brown footprint and the words: BIG FOOT DAZE, GRIZZLY FALLS, MONTANA.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She set her things onto her chair. The effervescent tempo of Joelle’s high heels clicked toward her door, and the secretary popped her head into the office. She was dressed in beige and brown, and sure enough, her earrings actually were dangling footprints.

  “Don’t tell me,” Pescoli said.

  But she did. “We’re already starting the celebration for Big Foot Daze. Mayor Justison wanted every public employee to have a cup to display on their desks, to promote the upcoming celebration.”

  Pescoli hoisted the mug as if it were a beer stein. “We can’t get another detective on staff or an improved heating system, but this is in the budget?”

  She looked afraid that Pescoli might actually hurl it. “Publicity, you know. Now, Detective, I’ve talked to some of the other officers and staff members, and we’d all like to do a little something for the new baby.”

  Pescoli was suddenly tired. “I know. I appreciate it. But I don’t need, nor do I want a shower.”

  “I got that message. Loud and clear.” Her lips pinched a little, and Pescoli saw that she’d not only disappointed the woman, but hurt her. Oh, geez. “So”—she cleared her throat—“we all got together and . . . well, here.” She handed Pescoli a card from the pocket of her dress. Pescoli took it and opened the envelope. There was a cute little card inside with a rocking horse on the front, signed by everyone in the department, and a gift certificate to a baby store in Missoula. Touched, she found it hard to come up with the right thing to say. “Thank you, Joelle. You know, I don’t mean to be such a bitch about the shower, but it’s just . . . just not my thing.” Impossible to explain to a woman who lived in perpetual party mode.

  Joelle brightened. “Well, don’t be surprised if you’re inundated with food once that little person arrives. I’m organizing a meal chain.”

  “A what?”

  “Kind of like a prayer chain in church, you’ll see. Everyone brings something on a different day, gets a look at the baby, should be interesting. I wonder what Deputy Watershed will be bringing.” She looked thoughtful. “He likes to hunt, you know. Brags about eating all kinds of wildlife. I’ll contain him. No eel or beaver or bear or God-knows-what.” She gave a mock shudder. “I might put him on for a bottle of wine, but oh, then he’d bring some of that homemade stuff that he makes himself. Have you ever heard of dandelion wine? It’s like his and Frank Nesmith’s favorite, I swear. Well, don’t you worry, I’m handling it!”

  “Really, Joelle, I don’t think you’ll need to—”

  But she found herself talking to dead air as Joelle had slipped back into the hallway and clipped away, the click of her heels fading as she headed toward the front office of the station.

  Pescoli had just checked her email and made a couple of calls when Alvarez appeared, phone in hand. “Take a look at this,” she said, and handed Pescoli her phone, which was connected to the website for a local TV station. Along the bottom of the small screen, a running news ticker read: BREAKING NEWS: BIG FOOT SIGHTING. CREATURE THAT APPEARS TO BE A SASQUATCH SHOWN ON DRONE FOOTAGE NEAR GRIZZLY FALLS, MONTANA.

  “Drone footage?” Pescoli asked as she watched what appeared to be a large ape-like creature hurrying into the undergrowth.

  “Apparently several members of the Big Foot Believers own drones. This film was taken by Carlton Jeffe, and it’s very high-tech, of course.”

  “Of course.” She stared at the screen. The drone, flying high over the forest, moved downward, circling the area trying to catch a better view, but the creature, for the most part, was in shadow or hidden completely by a canopy of branches, only appearing where the foliage was less dense. Yes, the animal, standing on two legs, walking quickly, seemed large, but Pescoli’s perspective was off. A Big Foot? Nah.

  Alvarez said, “Jeffe does have a permit to own a drone. I checked.”

  She watched the replay again. “Where was this taken? And when?”

  “Today, a few hours ago, and it’s in a canyon only about half a mile to Reservoir Point, as the drone flies.”

  “Or the Big Foot lumbers,” Pescoli said dryly. “It’s a guy in an ape suit. A big guy. Has to be.” She pointed to the screen. “So, how does this have anything to do with Lindsay Cronin’s car crash? Or is it unrelated?” She didn’t believe it. Two friends who died in separate incidents? The first, certainly the victim of homicide, the second, one of the last people who was contacted by Destiny Rose Montclaire before her death, in a single car crash.

  And Kywin Bell had been close to both girls.

  “I got a preliminary autopsy report on Lindsay Cronin. Looks like she died in the crash. Ribs punctured a lung, head trauma, broken bones. Even though she was wearing a seat belt, the car was crushed, just crumpled in on her.”

  “Don’t tell me she was pregnant.”

  “No.”

  “Anyone told her parents yet?”

  “Two deputies gave the Cronins the news. They’re destroyed, of course, the older brother quiet, kind of keeping it all in. Roy, her father, called me and came in and ID’d the body.”

  “Not the mother?”

  “Darlie declined.”

  “I don’t blame her. That would be rough. Beyond rough.” As she sat at her desk, nearly ready to give birth to her third child, a cute little card propped up near her computer, anticipation growing to welcome a new family member, she felt a bit humbled that she had this embarrassment of riches when the Cronins had just lost their only daughter.

  CHAPTER 27

  The three detectives hashed it out in a back room often used for meetings or, if they needed one, a task force. The windows were mounted high, just enough to let in the late afternoon light, two whiteboards were pressed against one wall, and there were several laptop computers on the large table at which Pescoli and Alvarez sat, listening to Detective Sage Zoller, as she went over the information in the Montclaire case. As she talked, information appeared on their screens.

  “So, here’s what we know,” she said. “There are rumors that Destiny had several boyfriends and used one against the other. But, Donald Justison Junior is not the father of her child.”

  “That doesn’t rule him out as a suspect,” Alvarez said. “In fact, that might have been his motive to kill her, that she cheated on him.”

  “Who is the father?” Pescoli asked. The room was hot and stuffy; the air conditioner, which kept some parts of the building as cold as ice, was unable to filter any of that cool air here. An oscillating fan standing in a corner did little more than move the hot air around, ruffling papers on the table.

  “Unknown. We’ve ruled out Bryant Tophman, Rod Devlin, Emmett Tufts, and TJ O’Hara as the baby dad
dy,” Sage admitted. “None of them are a match.”

  “Again, it doesn’t mean they weren’t involved,” Pescoli argued.

  Zoller nodded. “So far, Austin Reece has refused to give a sample and his father is blocking it every way.”

  Alvarez growled, “I’m getting a court order. That kid is going to get swabbed.”

  “Good,” Pescoli said, shifting in the chair. Sitting for long periods of time was difficult, and she’d been up for what seemed like years.

  Zoller continued, “Alex O’Hara and the Bell brothers’ samples are being processed, should be back from the lab tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

  Pescoli grunted. “What else?”

  “The lab has no other physical evidence other than the bit of latex under the victim’s nails. It’s assumed she was fighting her attacker off as he strangled her and she managed to pierce the latex.”

  “No easy feat,” Alvarez observed. “That stuff is made so that it won’t rupture. That’s the whole idea.”

  Pescoli fanned herself with her file folder. “So we got lucky.”

  Zoller didn’t look convinced. “We already know those gloves can be found everywhere, from hospitals to labs, to your local construction sites. Anyone could pick up a pack.... We’re checking recent orders from various outlets, but that’ll take some time.”

  “What about alibis?” Pescoli said.

  “As for the statements of the people interviewed, they’re all over the map, as you can see,” Sage said. “Most of them have alibis, but some are each other’s.”

  Alvarez was sliding through the statements, all of which were highlighted. “So the Bell brothers were with each other.”

  Sage nodded. “And other kids in and out of their group, too. No one’s admitting to meeting up with Destiny.”

  “Except for Donny Justison,” Alvarez said.

  “Yeah, and he’s lying about it. First, Veronica Palmero gives him an alibi he didn’t use, and then he says that he didn’t meet Destiny in the woods. That she came by his house. Either way, he’s a liar.”

  They’d already thought that she might have been killed somewhere else and brought to the creek, but had no proof. Nothing was coming together.

  “Do we have statements for any of her other acquaintances, people who knew her and weren’t at the party on the night she was found?” Pescoli asked Sage.

  “Yep. Cousins, old boyfriends, her family. Everyone is accounted for. And as far as we can tell, she didn’t have any kind of secret life. No one would profit from her death. She had no money and there wasn’t an insurance policy on her.”

  “So the last person, aside from the killer, to see Destiny Montclaire alive was Donny Justison,” Alvarez said.

  Pescoli added, “Unless he is the killer.”

  “Uh-huh.” Alvarez rubbed the back of her neck. “And the people she texted that night were Lindsay Cronin and Kywin Bell.”

  “That’s right,” Zoller said. “Now Lindsay Cronin’s dead and Kywin claims he never got the text.”

  Pescoli said, “Just like he never got the text from Lindsay Cronin. Someone’s lying.”

  “No. Not just someone. The whole lot of them,” Alvarez said shortly. “If you scroll through these statements, they’re like Swiss cheese, filled with holes. But yeah, Kywin’s definitely hiding something. I know he’s lying, I can feel it, but his reaction to the missing texts seemed genuine. He insists he’s never seen them before.”

  “An act,” Pescoli said. “Just like his old man.” She leaned back in the chair, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible.

  “There’s an interesting thing, though,” Sage said. “It might be nothing, but I went over the phone and text records of Kywin Bell. Nothing.” She brought the phone records up on screen. “But when you compare them to his brother’s? Kip’s. Take a look.” She split the screen and both records came up. “If you notice, Destiny called Kip as well. They knew each other, obviously, but more than that, she seemed to pocket-dial him a lot. Those are the short conversations, or non-conversations, that only lasted a second or two.”

  Pescoli leaned closer to the screen.

  “I tend to pocket-dial the same couple of people,” Zoller went on. “It happens. But what’s noteworthy is that on the dates of the missing texts, take a look, there’s a quick call to Kip that didn’t last for even two seconds. They didn’t connect, so I thought originally that she’d hit the wrong number by accident, or pocket-dialed him . . . but what if she didn’t?”

  “You mean it was what? A signal?” Pescoli felt a sizzle of excitement.

  “So that he would get a message on his brother’s phone?” Alvarez was thinking aloud, her thoughts in sync with Pescoli’s.

  Zoller said, “She pocket-dialed him a lot, so I didn’t think anything of it at first. But maybe those times when he didn’t pick up were somehow a signal back so then she didn’t text Kywin.”

  “Why?” Pescoli asked.

  Alvarez posed, “Because she was seeing Kip on the side and was supposed to be dating Kywin?”

  “No one says Kywin was involved with her,” Pescoli pointed out. “Destiny Rose Montclaire, yes. But Lindsay?”

  “Let’s ask him,” Alvarez said.

  They tossed the idea around some more. Then Pescoli stood and stretched for a second. “Sorry,” she said. “I can only sit in one position so long.” She settled into her chair again and asked Zoller, “What do we know about Lindsay Cronin’s accident?”

  “The accident reconstruction crew spent hours at Horsebrier Ridge. They think she swerved, as if to avoid something, or as if something was in the car and forced her to turn sharply. She lost control and went through the guardrail. There was no indication that she was actually run off the road, but that’s still a possibility. It seems unlikely at her age that she would have had a heart attack or anything debilitating. She didn’t have any medical history of anything like seizures.”

  “But she could have dropped her cell phone and reached for it. Something like that,” Alvarez said. “Or a malfunction of the vehicle.”

  “It’s possible,” Zoller agreed. “Once they get the car out of the canyon and go over the mechanics.”

  Pescoli grumbled, “So we really don’t know anything more except it’s a helluva coincidence.” The baby kicked and she shifted in her chair again.

  “Not really, but on a side note, I found some pictures of the missing Big Foot costume.” The picture came up on the screen. “It’s not been located, but here’s what it looks like.” Sure enough, an image of a man in a shaggy ape suit appeared. “It’s the same color as the one in Carlton Jeffe’s film, unfortunately.” Zoller seemed a little disturbed. “I was hoping there would be differences, so that there would be less doubt that the creature is real.”

  “You think Jeffe and the Big Foot Believers created this film, that it’s a hoax?” Alvarez asked.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think Carlton would be involved in that. He’s sincere. But there are others . . .” She lifted a hand from her computer mouse and waggled it back and forth. “I’m not so sure.”

  “You got names?” Pescoli asked.

  “All of the kids you suspect in the murders could have taken the suit. For the Bell brothers, Alex O’Hara, Donny Justison, Bryant Tophman, and the rest of them, including Marjory Tuft’s stepsons, it’s all just a fun time for them to get together and go out in the woods and hunt a Sasquatch. They hang out with Ivor Hicks and Fred Nesmith—nutcases—and secretly laugh at them and play the whole game. Any one of them could have taken the costume. Or not . . .” She clicked another button on her computer and said, “I checked with costume stores as far away as Spokane and Boise, even Salt Lake. None rented any Sasquatch costumes in the last couple of months, but now, with the upcoming reality show, there’s more interest.”

  “Great,” Pescoli said.

  “This next page,” Zoller continued, “is a list of all the materials used to make the missing costume. All man-made. Any fibers
located at any of the scenes will be compared.”

  “Good.” Pescoli squirmed in her chair again. “This is progress,” she said, but they still had no answers.

  They talked some more, got no further, decided to take a break. Pescoli’s back was beginning to ache, and she’d had several texts from Bianca asking about when she was coming home. Bianca was at the house by herself as Santana and Jeremy were also working late, rounding up a couple of steers that had gotten out of a hole in the fence line at the Long ranch.

  On my way, she typed and headed out, first calling in a to-go order at Wild Wills, then driving to the lower section of town, where, already, banners announcing Big Foot Daze had been strung across Main Street near the courthouse. It was amazing how quickly the town had adopted the holiday and gotten it together. All propelled by Mayor Justison, who, it seemed, when she was so inclined, could move mountains, and find a Sasquatch or two in the process.

  She parked in a no-parking zone as the lot and streets were full. If she actually got a ticket, she’d deal with it, and she wouldn’t be inside long enough to get her Jeep towed.

  Heading into the restaurant, she passed Grizz, who, it appeared, had also gotten into the spirit of Big Foot Daze as he’d given up his bikini to don an ape mask, just as if he were pretending to be Sasquatch. In her current mood, Pescoli actually missed the swim attire.

  The whole town had gone nuts, she thought, embracing the newfound holiday celebration and the damned reality show somehow while conveniently pushing the tragedies of the two girls’ deaths to the background. The doors to the restaurant opened, and Terri Tufts, Wilda Wyze, and Billie O’Hara walked in. They started for the bar when Wilda caught sight of Pescoli.