The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Pescoli eyed her partner. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Meaning ‘butt out’?”

  “Something like that.” But she picked up the pack of tasteless gum. “Seriously, how’re things at the office?”

  “Better. Since Star-Crossed is now officially over. Joelle wants us to have some kind of New Year’s party, but everyone’s dog tired and just wants to have some time with their families.”

  “You?” Pescoli asked and saw the shadow cross her partner’s eyes.

  “Nah. I don’t have anyone around. I volunteered to cover some of the shifts.”

  “You could use a break.”

  “I’ll get one.” She nodded toward the bed. “Once my partner’s back on her feet.”

  The door opened and a heavy-set nurse with apple cheeks swept in. “Can I get you something?” she asked as she hit a button to turn off the call light.

  “Yeah, how about a release,” Pescoli said. “The doctor mentioned I might get out of here today and I need to get back to my kids and my job.”

  “Tomorrow, I think he said.” Nurse Patterson wasn’t easily bluffed. “But I’ll check, Detective.”

  “Good.”

  The nurse backed out the door and Alvarez, her expression turning somber said, “Seriously, Pescoli, I know you and I, we’re kind of oil and water, don’t always get along, surely don’t see eye to eye, but…what we do, it works.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And there was a time when I knew that son of a bitch had you. I knew that your initials were part of his message and I thought that psycho had already killed you.” Her eyes were dark as obsidian. “I was sure that we were going to find your body tied to a damned tree.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Not quite. Christ, Pescoli, what the hell were you thinking? Taking off on your own? Letting that son of a bitch get the drop on you!” She was agitated now, her cheeks flushed, more flustered than Pescoli had ever seen Alvarez who was usually wound so tight, under so much control.

  “I was just thinking about my kids. I didn’t ask the creep to shoot out my tire!”

  “I know, but he was playing you. Somehow he was playing you!”

  “He was playing everyone.”

  “Well…yeah.” Alvarez took a step toward the bed. “That’s true, but listen, I’m not kidding, if you ever scare the hell out of me like this again, I might just have to shoot you myself!”

  Pescoli nodded. “You can use my gun.”

  The storm in Alvarez’s eyes broke and she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re…”

  “I know, I know. I’m everything you hate, but listen, we got him, didn’t we?” Pescoli pointed out. “I’m alive and we got the mutt!”

  “That we did, Partner.” Alvarez, obviously unable to argue the point, let out a long sigh. “That we did.”

  Epilogue

  New Year’s Eve

  “So, cowboy, what say we toast the New Year?” Pescoli said from the couch in her living room where the Christmas tree was already looking dead.

  From the rocker on the other side of the coffee table, Santana raised a speculative eyebrow. “With what? Diet 7-Up?”

  “I was thinking more in terms of champagne.”

  “You’re still on pain pills.”

  “And you’re no fun!” she teased, loving that she could goad him.

  “Why don’t we wait until you’re 100 percent.”

  “That might take years.”

  “Maybe into next year.”

  “That’s only an hour away.” She shifted on the couch, felt pain in her shoulder and sighed. “I hate being laid up.”

  “Really?”

  Regan half-smiled. She remembered nothing of the ordeal that had saved her life. They told her she’d “died.” That she was blue and not breathing, that if not for Santana dragging her out of the frozen lake and administering CPR, she might never have come to.

  It seemed impossible now. And though her fall into the ice and struggle for her life were only a week past, she felt as if it were a lifetime ago.

  Billy Hicks’s body had yet to be found.

  Rescue attempts had failed.

  Searches had turned up nothing.

  But with the spring thaw, Pescoli and the rest of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department were certain that what was left of the Star-Crossed Killer would rise to the surface. They would search again, when the weather broke, but for now, Hicks was floating in his own freezing, watery grave.

  Which was just fine with Pescoli.

  Elyssa O’Leary’s body had been found, tied to a hemlock tree in the hills overlooking the basin. When Regan had learned of her passing, she’d felt a personal guilt, wishing so much that she could have saved her. So much. But Elyssa seemed to be the last victim that he’d captured.

  The FBI and sheriff’s department had searched the tunnels of the old mine and torn Hicks’s lair upside down. Regan had told them about his files and boxes of pictures of potential victims and the public was breathing a sigh of relief. They’d found papers indicating that William Liam Hicks had sometimes used the alias of Liam Kress, taking his middle name and his mother’s maiden name, including the times he’d visited Padgett Long.

  Was Brady’s sister involved in his death? That was a murky area that was still in question. No connection could be proven that she’d hired Billy Hicks/Liam Kress to rid her of her brother, but agents Chandler and Halden of the FBI weren’t giving up. There was evidence that Billy had stolen a copy of Hubert’s will from the Long estate; a corner of one page with Tinneman’s firm’s name and a spatter of Brady’s blood had been found in the dead embers of Billy Hicks’s cabin.

  Ivor was broken-hearted.

  Disbelieving.

  Finding solace with Jack Daniel’s and Jim Beam, even more entrenched in his fantasy about an alien abduction according to townspeople who’d run across him at the Spot.

  Now that the reign of terror was over, and Regan was growing stronger, she was ready to deal with her personal issues. She’d been pleasantly surprised to learn that Lucky had given up his quest for full custody of the kids, and that Jeremy and Bianca seemed more than okay with the arrangement. Neither of her children had mentioned living with him and Michelle again. In fact, Pescoli had overheard them making fun of Michelle’s Santa pancakes with blueberry eyes and whipped-cream beard.

  It galled her that she felt an ounce of satisfaction in their attitude, but there it was. Both kids were out for the evening. Jeremy with Ty, his questionable friend, but Regan suspected somehow he’d find a way to hook up with Heidi Brewster. She’d warned him to take it slow and had even left a box of condoms in his bedroom, explaining they were for “when the day came,” and that she was in no way condoning teenage sex.

  But she’d been there.

  As for Bianca, she was staying over at a friends as well. Regan had checked it out. Bianca had assured her that “absolutely” her boyfriend Chris wasn’t going to show up. She also swore that she’d given back the “promise ring.”

  Well, maybe.

  At least she wasn’t wearing it in Regan’s presence. But that didn’t mean a lot.

  “So,” Santana said, reaching to the coffee table where the remnants of some of Joelle’s “Special Christmas Bars” were scattered on a plate, “What do you think about moving in together?”

  “What? Are you serious?” She was shaking her head. “I have kids to raise.”

  “And you, darlin’, need a life of your own.” He chewed on the cookie, then took a seat on the couch next to her, lifting her leg with its air cast on her ankle, onto his lap.

  “You would be a lousy stepfather.”

  “I’d be a great stepfather,” he said, pretending affront.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked at him hard. “Is that what you want?”

  A smile slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “I want you, and it’s all part of the package. Besides, they’r
e interesting to be around.”

  “Hah.”

  He rubbed her leg and she had trouble concentrating. “I liked things the way they were,” she told him.

  “Hmmm.” There was disbelief in that syllable.

  “What’s wrong with a no-tell motel?”

  “Nothing says we still can’t do that.”

  She thought it over. “I think you and me living together might be the end of something wonderful.”

  He leaned down and kissed her bare leg. Damn it, she felt a tingle as his lips brushed over her skin. “Could be the start,” he pointed out, kissing her a little higher and the tingle deep inside spread.

  “You’re bad,” she said, having trouble concentrating.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I do.”

  “Let’s test that theory, shall we?” He shifted, lengthening out on the couch beside her and kissing her temple. “Tell me, Detective, what’s your most secret fantasy?”

  “You mean besides the one with you?”

  “Naughty girl,” he said, his voice low as he leaned over her.

  She touched the side of his jaw and winked. “You have no idea.”

  LISA JACKSON

  BORN TO DIE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  Epilogue

  Expecting to Die Teaser

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always there are many people who helped me while I wrote this book. It’s a case of the usual suspects, for the most part, and they’re great: Nancy Bush, Alex Craft, Matthew Crose, Niki Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Robin Rue, John Scognamiglio, Larry Sparks, and more. Of course, there may be some errors in the book, and they are all mine.

  PROLOGUE

  Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose.

  Tonight, Shelly Bonaventure thought, she’d come out the loser. Make that a loser with a capital L, the kind kids made with their thumb and forefinger held up to their foreheads.

  She unlocked the door of her apartment, threw her purse onto the entryway table, and felt a sudden searing pain scream through her guts.

  Gasping, she doubled over, her insides on fire.

  Suddenly.

  Out of the blue.

  “Oooh,” she moaned as the pain subsided enough that she could stumble to the couch. “What the hell?”

  Still queasy, the pain in her abdomen slightly lessened, she took in several deep breaths. Was the pain bad enough to call 9-1-1, or should she head to the ER herself?

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered, but an uneasy feeling that something was very, very wrong stuck with her. “Pull yourself together,” she said and kicked off her high heels. Either she’d drunk too much, eaten the wrong thing, or her period was coming a few days early.

  No way. Not with pain like that.

  She closed her eyes for a second, beads of perspiration collecting on her upper lip. She would take some Pepto if she had it and, if not, just suffer through until morning. As she swiped at the sweat, she glanced around for her cat. “Lana?” she said and heard no response. Odd. The cat usually trotted out of whatever hiding spot she’d claimed when she heard the front door’s lock spring open.

  Huh.

  “Lana? Come on, kitty. . . .” Again she listened; again she heard nothing. Oh, well, maybe the calico was just playing games with her and would spring out from a darkened hallway to scare the liver out of Shelly. It had happened before.

  Yet . . .

  Slowly she made her way to the bathroom, nearly tripping on the rug she’d bought.... Oh, God, had it really been seven years ago? “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” she singsonged to the cat. “Momma’s home.”

  Clunk!

  The sound came from the patio.

  Startled, Shelly whipped around.

  Was there a shadow on the patio?

  Heart in her throat, she stepped forward and peered through the sliding door where she saw that the shadow was only that of a palm frond catching in the wind and dancing in front of the porch light.

  “Idiot! Stop being paranoid.”

  So what was the noise ... ?

  The cat? Where?

  Her nerves still stretched a bit, Shelly convinced herself it was nothing. Probably the old guy in the unit above hers, Bob . . . whatever. He was always dropping something.

  Another wave of nausea swept through her, and she clenched her teeth until the pain subsided. God, what was wrong with her?

  Holding on to the back of the couch, she let out her breath, then glanced around the living area. Had she lived in this one-bedroom apartment for nearly a decade, watching as the years tumbled past, the lines in her face becoming more pronounced and the roles she’d hoped to land slipping through her fingers?

  Ever since her divorce from Donovan . . .

  She wasn’t going to dwell on that piece of ancient history. Not tonight. A positive attitude, that was what she needed. And maybe something to calm her stomach. She’d just had a little too much to drink at Lizards, the bar named more for its clientele than any real reptile, which was less than two blocks down the street. Cutting loose, telling herself she was going to embrace the big three-five, which was bearing down on her, she’d overindulged.

  But just a bit.

  Right?

  How could she help it when the guy she’d met at the bar had heard about her birthday, then had bought her several mai tais and had seemed really interested? Really interested. He was handsome and sexy and spoke in a voice so low, it caused her spine to tingle a bit. He’d almost seemed familiar, and when he’d touched the back of her hand, she’d experienced a definite tingle of anticipation. His gray eyes were intense, striated a deep midnight blue, his lips blade thin, the slight shading of his jaw only emphasizing how male he was. And then that smile, crooked and most definitely sexy as he’d talked to her. Yeah, he definitely had the bad boy routine down pat. She’d even mentioned to him that he had a killer smile, and he’d found that comment amusing. He’d said he’d never heard it described that way and chuckled deep in his throat.

  She’d had fantasies of what he would look like without his shirt, how it would feel to have his lips press hot and urgent against hers, how she would tumble, oh, so easily into bed with him as his strong arms caught her.

  Yeah, but you left him in the bar, didn’t you?

  To come back here. Alone.

  Of course she’d walked away. She didn’t know him from Adam. And getting out when she did was probably a good idea, really, considering the fact that she was feeling ill and had a five o’clock wake-up call that she wasn’t about to miss.

  Her agent had weaseled an audition for a role on a new drama to be aired on Fox in the fall. The casting call was being held early to
morrow, and she intended to look her best. Better than her best. Because if she didn’t land this role, it was over . . . well, at least until she wangled her way onto Dancing with the Stars or some other reality vehicle that would help jump-start her flagging career.

  If she could just shake this lousy feeling. Good Lord, was she actually perspiring? That wasn’t good, not good at all.

  After all, this television series could be her last shot, considering Hollywood’s attitude about age.

  How depressing was that?

  Shelly Bonaventure had to make it, she had to. She couldn’t very well go back to that Podunk town in Montana with her tail between her legs. Hadn’t she been prom queen of Sycamore High, voted “most likely to be famous” her senior year? Hadn’t she taken off, shaking the dust of that small town from her shoes as quickly as possible? And hadn’t, in the beginning, her star shined brightly, rising with promise and a few plum roles? A recurring role in a soap opera before she was twenty! Hadn’t she worked with the Toms—Cruise and Hanks—and Gwyneth and Meryl and . . . and even Brad Friggin’ Pitt? Okay, so they were small parts, but still, they were legit! And she’d been a double for Julia Roberts! Then there was the vampire series What’s Blood Got to Do With It on cable. She’d paid her dues, by God. But, she realized, those flashes of fame had been a while back, and lately she’d been relegated to corpses on CSI, a few commercials, and voice-overs for low-budget animated films.

  If she didn’t land the part of Estelle in this new series, she could kiss her B-listed career good-bye and open her arms to a reality show for has-beens. She shuddered at the thought.

  Hollywood, she thought miserably, the land of worn-out casting couches and broken dreams.

  She winced against another jab of pain that nearly buckled her knees. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, then half crawled, half stumbled, to her small galley kitchen, where she dragged open her refrigerator door, saw the sparse contents inside, and felt depressed all over again. After retrieving the half-full bottle of Pepto, she unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of the pink ooze. Quivering, she replaced the top, put the remainder of the bottle back on the shelf, then sat on the floor, her legs extended, as she took in long, deep breaths.