The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

I spy the notes that I’ve planned to use in the future. Perfect copies waiting to be tacked to the trees over the heads of the appropriate women. Hmmm.

  It’s taken years of planning—years—because the time has to be right; the potential women with the right initials to be driving through the Bitterroots. I have backup plans, of course. Groupings of women with the same initials who are potential targets, because it’s a damned hard trick to make the message work. That, too, can change, as I have several potential notes that will spell out essentially the same warning. So my bases are covered.

  The tidy boxes I’ve kept, dozens of them with notes and files on all the women, prospective candidates for my work. They’re alphabetized by name, have pictures attached, usually taken discreetly by my cell phone, or even with the woman’s permission. I have cards on each one with information about where they work, where they’re from, what they like to do, and most importantly, their travel plans.

  Many, hundreds, have been discarded. Their names weren’t right, they had no plans to drive through the mountains in this part of Pinewood County. Those are mostly the ones I met years before, when my plan was first forming.

  I sip the vodka while the fire burns brightly and Pescoli plots her escape on the other side of the door. I don’t yet know how she plans to do it, but it will be done, I’m sure. I wish now that I’d hidden a small camera in the room and make a note to myself to do so in the future.

  It’s one detail I hadn’t thought of when drawing up my plan. I replace several boxes, slide them into their individual slots in a cupboard I built years before. Oh, yes, this has been a long time in the making.

  Mother, I think, would be proud.

  At my attention to detail.

  I mentally pat myself on the back for my patience. It has served me well over time—while waiting for the perfect shot, or for anticipating that the right woman driver will make a trek over the mountains, or for the exact moment to kill Brady Long.

  And it has been worth every second of the wait.

  I have to remind myself to hold on to my patience as well as my temper in dealing with the detective. She has a way of rattling my nerves, making me edgy and unsure, sparking my temper into anger.

  And that won’t do.

  Not yet.

  I look at the door of her silent room again.

  I feel my rage, but I’ll keep it under rein.

  For a little longer.

  And then…?

  I crack the ice cube with my teeth.

  And then, watch out.

  Annette buzzed Jalicia just as she was packing up to go home for the evening. “Mr. Tinneman’s on line one.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Should I put him through?”

  “Go ahead,” the doctor said, frowning a bit. She’d hardly heard from anyone about Padgett Long and now Padgett’s father’s attorney had called three times in one day.

  “Dr. Ramsby?” the lawyer said, sounding ruffled. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?” She glanced at the clock. It was late and getting later, and she wanted nothing more than to head home to a nice meal, a stir-fry she would make for herself.

  “After I talked to you, I went over to visit Mr. Long, Padgett’s father.”

  “How is he?” Jalicia asked.

  There was the slightest hesitation on the line. “Not well. I’m not breaking any attorney/client confidentiality here. It’s a known fact. The care-givers at Regal Oaks won’t commit to a time line, you understand, but I wouldn’t expect him to live out the week.”

  “I’m sorry.” He’d said as much earlier.

  “But there’s been an unexpected complication. A tragedy. The real reason I called you. Hubert Long’s only son, Brady, Padgett’s brother, was killed today.”

  “Killed,” she repeated, shocked, a protective hand automatically covering her heart. “In some kind of accident?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a homicide, Dr. Ramsby. The police are being pretty tight-lipped in Grizzly Falls, but I have confirmed that Brady Long is dead.”

  Jalicia blinked, processing. “Homicide?”

  “It would seem. It’s all over the news in Montana.”

  “How? What…? I’m sorry.” She kept apologizing. For people she’d never met. But they were Padgett’s family. Her only family? And within the week it was likely they would both be gone.

  Her mind was already skipping ahead. She rolled her chair back to the file cabinet and unlocked it to find the paperwork on Padgett Long: three thick files.

  “This tragedy has us all—boggled—a little.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is all a delicate subject as Mr. Long is still alive. But we have to plan for the inevitable, since it will affect Padgett’s care somewhat.”

  “I understand.”

  “Hubert’s been informed of Brady’s death, and he has a request.”

  “About Padgett?”

  “Yes.”

  Hauling all three manila-bound files, Jalicia rolled her chair back to the desk, opening the most recent information on her patient. She then clicked onto her computer to gather information in the database, where most of the intelligence was kept.

  “Padgett Long will be Hubert Long’s sole survivor now. His sole heir.”

  So there were no other living relatives to the estate, and Tinneman was sorting through an unexpected turn.

  “There’s a trust set up for Padgett, of course,” he went on, “And as she’s—infirm—the estate will always see that she’s cared for. But there is another area that needs to be addressed…”

  “What is that?” she asked when his pause stretched into uncomfortable silence.

  “If you check through your files, the old ones, where it shows when Padgett was admitted, you’ll see, I believe, that she spent a little time—just about four months—at another institution.”

  “Okay.” She pushed the two most recent documents aside and concentrated on the one that was fifteen years old. Some of the pages had yellowed and had that musty smell of disuse. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she carefully turned through the pages in the oldest folders. “I’ve got her records in front of me.”

  “Good. That institution is Cahill House in San Francisco.”

  “I’m looking, Mr. Tinneman, but I don’t see anything.”

  “I’m sure you have a copy.”

  “There are a lot of pages. I might need some time to peruse the file closely. Oh, wait…” She ran her finger down a yellowed page and there, in faded letters, she read: Transfer from Cahill House. The notation was buried deep in the first three typed pages of Padgett’s admission form. Jalicia rechecked the computer and frowned. This same information had seemingly been omitted when it was transferred to the database. “I’ve got it. Cahill House in San Francisco?” The address was barely legible. “Is that a private hospital? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “No, not a hospital. Not really.” His voice was a little strained, as if his collar were suddenly too tight. “It’s owned by the Cahill family and has been for generations. It’s a place where girls can stay who find themselves—in trouble.”

  Jalicia squinted at the phone. “You mean pregnant?” First she’d heard the strain of Brady Long’s unexpected death in his voice, now he’d started tiptoeing through the words. Embarrassment over an unwanted pregnancy? Was he reflecting Hubert Long’s viewpoint?

  “Yes, she was pregnant.”

  “Did she go full term?” Dr. Ramsby asked, when Tinneman shut himself down again.

  “She gave the child—a boy—up for adoption.”

  Jalicia leaned back in her chair, absorbing. Her gaze looked out the window to the pale winter sunlight filtering through the clouds, and she thought of the woman in room 126 with the blue, blue eyes, the hidden intelligence that lurked there. “Willingly?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “The woman who hasn’t spoken a wo
rd since she’s been here, she agreed to give up her baby?”

  “What are you suggesting, Dr. Ramsby?” he asked tersely.

  “I haven’t seen any indication that Padgett Long could make that kind of decision on her own.”

  “Padgett signed the adoption papers for her son and they were sealed,” he stated flatly.

  Had Padgett really ever been competent to sign away her child? Jalicia wondered. Then again, what would she have done with a baby? “Let me understand what’s happening here, Mr. Tinneman. Are you afraid that Padgett’s child is going to find out that he or she was born into a very wealthy family and will want his or her share of the inheritance?”

  “I’m afraid it runs deeper than that,” Tinneman said, his voice tense.

  “How so?”

  “It’s Mr. Long’s wish that he meet his grandson before he dies. He’s obsessed with finding the boy. Especially now, with Brady’s death.”

  “And this boy, his grandson, has lived with another family for his entire life.”

  “I understand it may be a surprise to him, but I doubt that the parents would object to their son meeting his biological family, given the circumstances.”

  Dr. Ramsby didn’t like the subtext: because the Longs were a family of wealth. “What are you asking me to do?”

  “We just want help in finding the boy. Mr. Long is willing to be extremely generous with him and his family.”

  Jalicia thought she understood. “You plan to make him an offer, maybe keep him from attempting to make a claim on the estate?”

  “Before you make assumptions, Dr. Ramsby, consider that the costs of raising a child through college are significant, even, in some cases, impossible. And there are all kinds of other expenses in raising a child as well, so, yes, there are monetary considerations. And Mr. Long plans to be very generous. Very.” His unctuous tone sent a frisson down Jalicia’s back. “And consider this: when found, the boy will finally learn his biological family history, personal and medical. It will give him a sense of who he is in the world and help everyone concerned.”

  “What about his father?”

  “What?”

  “Padgett’s son’s biological father.”

  “He’s out of the picture.” Said quickly. Dismissively.

  “Did he even know he was going to have a child?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you were a part of this adoption, or your firm was.” She flipped through document after document on the Sargent, McGill, and Tinneman letterhead. “There are laws governing father’s rights, Mr. Tinneman.”

  “I know the law.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Padgett never named the father,” he said tautly. “She’s the only one who knows who he is.”

  “And she’s not talking.” Literally. Dr. Ramsby glanced at the picture of her own daughter, grinning into the camera near the bud vase. Clarice was fourteen, about the same age as Padgett’s missing son.

  “She’s never mentioned anything in any of your sessions?” There was a note of hope in the attorney’s voice.

  “Now we’re talking doctor/patient privilege.”

  “Finding this boy would be a big help. Hubert Long would be eternally grateful. To you. To Mountain View. If you could talk to Padgett for him…?”

  “I think you need to take this matter up with”—she glanced at her notes—“someone at Cahill House. They have the records.”

  “I already tried that,” he said swiftly. “They won’t release any information about the case to anyone but Padgett.”

  So the oily lawyer was trying to come in through the back door.

  “Doctor Ramsby—”

  “I can’t discuss this any further. If you, or anyone else, wants to come and visit Padgett, talk with her yourself, then you’re welcome to do so. But I can’t help you in that matter. Thank you for informing me of my patient’s brother’s death. I’ll make certain she knows.” Dr. Ramsby hung up, shaking her head. Families. Always a trial. And Tinneman…the lawyer knew better than to try to wrangle information from her, information she couldn’t give him. Jalicia had never met Tinneman, but she didn’t like him and decided he was a true snake in the grass.

  And what did all this mean for Padgett Long?

  Chapter Twenty

  He was back.

  The son of a bitch was in the next room, humming to himself, stoking the fire or cooking or doing…whatever the hell it was he did on the other side of the door. Regan watched his shadow move around the adjoining area that she’d only caught glimpses of when he opened the door and came into “her” quarters to leave her food, or water, or take the damned bucket he’d given her to relieve herself in, or to stoke the fire.

  In those glimpses of his living area, she’d seen parts of a long table, and a heavy armoire and bookcases on the one wall that was in her line of vision. She wondered what kind of job, if any, he held and, of course, as she lay fighting the cold and the darkness, she always wondered who he was.

  Why did she feel she knew him?

  Holding the scratchy blanket tight to her chin as the fire burned ever lower, the scent of wood smoke strong, Pescoli had thought about all the criminals she’d busted over the years and she hadn’t been able to come up with a name or face that she could place on this maniac.

  None of them fit.

  She’d arrested a number of thugs who’d threatened her or those she loved, but their taunts had proven idle, a spitting out of rage and trampled pride as the lowlifes had been hauled away to jail to contemplate their misdeeds and fester their hate of cops, the system, and her. But once they were released, to a one, they avoided her like the plague.

  This mutt was different.

  His rage was darker.

  And leveled not only at her, but at other women as well, and authority. She’d felt his hostility like an entity in the room with them, sensed that he was sneering at her despite his sometimes smooth and cajoling tone. As if he cared about her.

  She didn’t believe the son of a bitch for a second.

  And now that he was back and she couldn’t keep at her futile attempts at escape, she had to unmask him. More importantly, she had to stop him.

  Before he killed her.

  A tall order.

  One she couldn’t fill handcuffed.

  She saw shadows moving under the door and realized he’d walked toward her room only to stop on the other side of the threshold.

  No doubt the depraved prick was even now peeking inside. What a perv! She forced her body to quit quivering, set her jaw, and glared up at the small peephole in the door, silently and defiantly daring him to come inside.

  If she could talk to him some more, she might learn who he was, where this damned lair was located, and what his plans were. If she didn’t lose her temper and just kept him going on.

  As if reading her mind, he clicked open the door and stepped into the dark room. A wedge of light illuminated her austere quarters and she caught a glimpse of her own clothing, folded neatly by the fire. Was her weapon there, too? What about her phone? All she could see were her jeans, sweater, jacket, and shoes.

  “What?” he mocked.

  Trying to make out the contours of his face, she squinted up at him, holding the blanket over her body. The fire had nearly died, the temperature in the room was not a lot of degrees above freezing, and the light was so weak, only brightening the area just skirting the stove, that she was thwarted. And those hideous goggles and ridiculous beard.

  He kicked the door shut. It closed with a solid thud that jarred Pescoli, put her even more on edge. Don’t let him get to you, it’s all part of his game. Play it cool. But the door closing seemed the knell of death, reinforcing the fact that there was no escape, that she was locked in here, prey to whatever vile fantasies his sick mind concocted.

  “So, Detective…” His voice was a raspy whisper that crawled across her skin. “Your escape plan isn’t working.”

  Her pulse jumped. He knows abo
ut that? Has he been secretly watching me? Filming me? Laughing at my impotent attempts to free myself?

  “You may as well give up. Whatever you’ve decided to do, it won’t work.” He was stepping closer to her, standing tall, trying to intimidate her as she was forced to lie or sit, naked on the cot.

  He had a ski hat on with blond hair poking from it, but she thought even his hair might be fake. He was going to a lot of trouble not to be recognized.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  As if he cared. The truth was her stomach was turned inside out with fear; she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite.

  “No?”

  She didn’t respond and he cocked his head, studying her like a bird eyeing an interesting insect scuttling on the ground. “You know, Red, I expected more from you.” Mock disappointment was audible in his raspy voice. “A little bit of fire. This passive-aggressive act isn’t really working.”

  “I’m not acting.”

  “Ah. She speaks. At last.” He seemed pleased and Pescoli mentally kicked herself for saying anything. But you have to engage him, draw him out, make him say something that will trip him up or give you some clue as to his plans. Is there cell service up here, wherever this place is? An access road? Is it visible from the air? How far from town are you?

  “You don’t know me,” she stated flatly.

  “Don’t I?”

  He was so smug, she felt a needle of doubt pierce her heart. Was he someone close to her? Who? “Then why don’t you let me see your face?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “This is fun?” she asked.

  “Of course it is.” Jesus, he was enjoying himself.

  “Oh, sure. A riot,” she mocked and moved to a sitting position, keeping the blanket covering her, her handcuffed right wrist holding her hand down by the cot’s leg. Her left wrist, linked by the chain to her right, lay against her right thigh.

  “You’re modest,” he said, obviously enjoying himself. “That surprises me. I thought you wouldn’t be so shy.”

  You don’t know the half of it, jerk-off.

  He scratched at the back of his neck. Maybe his fake hair was itching. If she could just pull off his hat, wig, and goggles, get a good look at his eyes, she was certain she’d be able to place him.