by Lisa Jackson
“Seriously?” Pescoli pulled her favorite cracked cup from the shelf. “So he’s, what? Claiming that he heard her die?”
“Something like that.”
“Dear God. Can you imagine?”
“No.” Alvarez scowled. “So it’s our case. Homicide.”
“Possible homicide. Man oh man.”
Before they could discuss the case any further, the sound of footsteps reached their ears, and Joelle, dressed head to foot in Christmas red, appeared. “Happy Holidays!” she greeted them, her blond hair decorated with matching poinsettias tucked over her ears. She carried three pink boxes into the lunchroom and plunked them down.
Pescoli noticed that the same red flowers displayed in Joelle’s blond locks were also pinned to the tops of her scarlet four-inch heels.
“I hope you all aren’t sick of sweets!” Joelle chirped with a toothy smile.
“Never,” Pescoli assured her.
Joelle picked up a little fake tree that, when she pressed a button, started to rotate, its lights glowing almost eerily, then set it back onto the table. She said, “My cousin Beth’s kids came down with that nasty flu, so they weren’t able to come to Thanksgiving dinner, and Uncle Bud and his wife, they’re in their eighties, you know, and were snowed in, so they didn’t show, either. Jennifer, my sister, she’s on one of her wacko diets again, only eats fruit and honey, I think, so the upshot is, I had waaay too much food.” Folding open each box, she exposed what appeared to be a pumpkin pie, some kind of berry torte, and a plastic container of sugar cookies cut into the shape of cornucopias, turkeys, and Pilgrim hats. Pescoli wasn’t sure, but it looked like there was at least one Easter Bunny, which must’ve taken a wrong turn from the freezer six months earlier.
As Joelle leaned forward, Pescoli caught a glimpse of her gold hoop earrings. Dear God, a minuscule elf sat in each eighteen-karat loop.
Joelle quickly spread the cookies on a plate, then, hearing the phones start to jangle, froze for a second, her lips pursing. “Duty calls,” she said with a shrug, then clicked quickly out of the lunchroom as a couple of road deputies walked in.
“She’s something else,” Pescoli muttered, but Alvarez wasn’t listening, so she opted for a black hat cookie and bit off the crown, down to the gold-colored buckle.
Alvarez, deep in thought, ignored all the goodies and said, as Pescoli poured herself a cup of the strong-looking coffee, “The Alexanders’ van is in the department’s garage. I thought I’d swing by and take a look.”
“I’m with you.” Pescoli wondered about the single-car accident. Maybe the husband was frantic, grief-stricken, trying to blame anyone for his wife’s single-car accident on an icy road. Or maybe it was to defer blame; maybe he knew something more than he was saying; maybe he expected the road crew to find evidence that the wife was run off the road.
You’re too suspicious, been in the business too long.
She finished her cookie and said, “Before we head out, though, I’d like to hear the nine-one-one tape. Then we’ll check the cell phone records, see where the pings come from.” She took a sip from her cup and sucked in her breath through her teeth. “That’s strong.”
“Brewster made it earlier. He doesn’t like, and I quote, ‘namby-pamby weak-assed shit,’ ” Alvarez said.
“Strong words from a God-fearing man.”
Alvarez shrugged. “Still a cop.”
“And a deacon in the church.”
“Your boss,” Alvarez reminded.
“And a pain in the ass.” She wanted to say more, but for once, Pescoli bit her tongue and wondered what kind of Secret Santa gift she’d get for the undersheriff. Rat poison or a one-way ticket to Mozambique or the South Pole came swiftly to mind, though she really didn’t hate the guy. He was a decent enough cop, just overly protective when it came to his daughters, especially Heidi, who, in Pescoli’s opinion, was two-faced and manipulative, and boy, did Heidi have Jeremy wrapped around her perfectly manicured fingers. God, Pescoli wished Jeremy would wise up and find someone else. Brewster probably wouldn’t appreciate a box of condoms under the department Christmas tree, especially if they were earmarked for his precious little girl.
Alvarez started walking out of the lunchroom just as the back door opened and the sheriff, along with his ever-faithful dog, walked inside.
“Mornin’,” he drawled with a smile that lifted the corners of his mustache.
“Morning,” Pescoli said, and Alvarez smiled, though it seemed a bit stiff.
“I hear we’ve got a possible homicide.” He pointed to his office, and Sturgis, tail wagging, hurried toward the sheriff’s office.
“Looks that way,” Alvarez said.
“Maybe.” Pescoli wasn’t convinced.
Alvarez added, “We’re checking on it now.”
“Good.” The sheriff nodded. “Oh, and thanks for stopping by the other night. I hope my extended family didn’t overwhelm you. The twins, even at seven they can be a handful. Imagine what they’ll be at fifteen.”
Pescoli didn’t want to go there. She knew about fifteen . . . and sixteen and seventeen . . . twins to boot?
“No, they were adorable,” Alvarez assured him, and Pescoli shot her a look. What the hell was this all about? Adorable? Alvarez thought some kids related to Grayson were adorable? This from the woman who never seemed to want children?
“Keep me posted about what happened out near the North Fork,” Grayson said.
“Will do,” Alvarez said as Grayson walked into his office and she and Pescoli headed down the hall.
Pescoli opened her mouth to speak, but Alvarez held up a hand and said, “I know.” She cast a look down the hallway toward Grayson’s office, and her face reflected no emotion. “I’ll tell you more about it later. Okay? Right now I’ve got an investigation to work on, and I’m way ahead of you about Elle and Tom Alexander’s cell phones. I’ve already made the request for the records for both of their numbers for the past two months. Just in case he called an insurance company or girlfriend.”
“Or she called a boyfriend.”
“Exactly. I should get the info today.”
“Good girl,” Pescoli said.
“Always.”
CHAPTER 21
In the eighty-year-old sheep shed the next morning, he checked his truck. Parked near the old John Deere tractor that still dripped oil, the pickup was hidden away in this drafty, graying outbuilding that was nearly a hundred yards down the hill from the main house. As far as he could tell, there was no damage that looked new or out of place. Was there any transfer of paint that might link his vehicle to that stupid bitch’s minivan? He didn’t think so.
Quickly, he unscrewed the solid steel specialty bumper from the dark truck. He’d welded the bumper together himself, built it like a cattle guard, and made sure that when it was bolted to the Chevy, it partially hid the Idaho plates he’d stolen years before. He’d picked a truck with Idaho plates because those plates were common in this area. And he prided himself on finding a pickup that was the same make and model as the one from which he’d lifted the plates.
God, it was cold.
Inside this insulation-free shed, his breath fogged and his fingers felt a little numb. He worked quickly. As he had so often in the past, he replaced those old stolen license plates with the current Montana plates. He also removed the white sheepskin cover to his seats, exposing the black leather, just in case anyone caught a glimpse inside the window as he was doing his “work.” The final step was to peel off the fake bumper stickers on the back of the truck. He’d made his own, though they were really magnets that he could remove at will. The truck, he knew, always needed to be disguised, even though during the day he drove his silver Lexus, bought at a dealer in Missoula, registered in his name, and sporting current Montana plates.
Once satisfied that the pickup, if ever found, would appear innocent enough, he carried the bumper to the other side of the shed, set up a drip cloth, and, after sanding off any traces of pai
nt transfer, used a rattle can of dull black paint and restored the bumper to new. He’d have to let it dry for a while; then he could put it, along with the seat covers and metallic “stickers,” in a hiding spot beneath the old manger, which still, if there wasn’t any breeze, smelled of long-forgotten Suffolks and Targhees and other breeds popular half a century earlier.
He knew he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of underestimating the police. He hadn’t run his missions for over a decade without being careful; even so, he’d encountered a few problems along the way. Though he was a genius, his IQ scores had proved as much, and he was a damned sight smarter than his father, he still couldn’t afford overconfidence.
So far, so good.
And then he felt it.
A crinkling of the skin on his nape—a warning.
That odd sensation that he was being observed by unseen eyes in this frigid shed.
His pulse skyrocketed and he turned quickly, looking over his shoulder, checking the cobwebby corners and shadowy doorways, but there was no one spying on him. He squinted, glancing through the one dirty window to the snowy fields beyond.
There was nothing out of the ordinary.
He was just jumpy.
Because he was stepping things up.
His work was more dangerous than ever.
The moan of the wind in the rafters sounded like eerie laughter, mocking him.
Sweat suddenly dappled his hairline.
Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He took in a deep breath. You’re the one in charge. You decide who dies. Do not forget that.
He talked himself down, found his equilibrium once more.
Satisfied that his secret was safe, he locked the shed and jogged back to the house, where he intended to shower, shave, and face the day. There would be news of the “accident” near the bridge, and he wanted to catch what the reporters and sheriff’s department were saying.
He lived for these moments when he’d neatly removed one of the Unknowings, and there was still some buzz about it. Soon enough the interest faded and the story slipped off the headlines.
A good thing, he reminded himself as he took the steps two at a time. The more disinterest, the better. Shelly Bonaventure had proved that. She’d gotten a helluva lot more press dead than she ever did during her lifetime. And yet he reveled in the recapping of the deaths, loved seeing the bafflement on the faces of the investigating officers, felt a sense of pride that he’d managed, once again, to outwit the authorities while working toward his ultimate goal.
But he had to be careful. Always. Time was of the essence. The problem was that most of the remaining Unknowings lived in and around this part of Montana, where they would be more likely linked. Oh, he’d taken care of some early on, years before, all deemed unfortunate accidents, but now, it seemed, most of his work would be here. He needed to be doubly careful as a cluster of deaths would now arouse more suspicion.
Again, he felt as if someone were surveying him, even seeing into his mind, but that was nuts. Crazy.
He closed his eyes and centered himself.
Pull yourself together! Do not fall victim to the paranoia. It’s nothing. Nothing!
Finally, again, his pulse was normal.
Checking his watch, he realized it was too late to listen in on Acacia, the most troubling of the lot. Just thinking of her made his skin tingle in a way he found disturbing, yet slightly erotic.
Too risky, he reminded himself. She had been the reason, all those years ago, that he’d learned of the other Unknowings. Her existence had unwittingly brought them all to his attention and each’s ultimate demise.
He should probably thank her.
He almost laughed aloud and wished that he could listen in on her and fantasize, but he knew it would be fruitless. There was no reason to try and listen now. She was already out of the house and probably at the clinic.
He smiled.
Maybe he should become her “patient.”
Soon. He smiled to himself and felt his cock tweak just a bit. Very, very soon.
“So she has some vague, slight resemblance to the other women. So what?” Pescoli said two hours later, when she and Alvarez had reconnected and were driving to the department’s garage. Today, it seemed, her partner was really grasping at straws. Her latest: Elle Alexander looked like Shelly Bonaventure and Jocelyn Wallis. That was just a leap of faith Pescoli wasn’t about to take.
But she did have to agree with Alvarez that the 9-1-1 tape of Tom Alexander’s frantic call to the emergency line sounded authentic, that he was out of his mind with fear, which was only reinforced when he showed up at the department earlier this morning. Upset, he’d stormed into the sheriff’s department and demanded an investigation into his wife’s death. But his anger had slipped as he’d talked to Pescoli.
Handsome and trim, he’d been the epitome of the grief-stricken husband who was still in shock.
“She was a good driver and was used to inclement weather. I’m telling you, she could navigate the worst roads in snow! And I heard it all! I was on the phone when he hit her. She was scared out of her mind and must’ve dropped the phone, because she wasn’t answering, and I heard the sound of metal on metal. Oh, God it was ... deafening. And then she was yelling and screaming, calling my name over and over, but she couldn’t hear me!” At that point he dissolved onto one of the side chairs, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “Then there was the screams and the rush of . . . water, I guess, and then ... and then ... nothing. The phone went dead. For the love of God, what am I going to do? Elle . . . oh, Jesus, Elle.”
Pescoli hadn’t been able to offer platitudes. She hadn’t told him, “It’ll be all right,” or “I know it’s tough, but you’ll get through this.” Not when she’d been where he was on the night that her first husband, Joe, had been shot.
It didn’t matter that it was in the line of duty.
She didn’t care that he was deemed a damned “hero.”
All she knew was that he was dead, leaving her with a young son and a hole in her heart big enough that an army tank could have driven through it. She would never be able to talk to him again or hear his laugh or watch him haul Jeremy around on his broad shoulders, or make love to him long into the night. It had been over in an instant. Those first years after Joe’s death had been hard. So hard that she’d mistaken lust for love and married Luke Pescoli, “Lucky,” who had proved to be anything but.
So she didn’t offer up bromides. Instead she said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Alexander,” and slid the Kleenex box across her desk to him.
Somehow she’d managed to take his statement, and now she and Alvarez were heading to the department’s garage. Alvarez was explaining that Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD wasn’t convinced that Shelly Bonaventure committed suicide, though most of the evidence pointed that way.
“There were just some things that didn’t add up to his satisfaction,” she said as she pulled into the lot designated for official vehicles. She found a parking spot near one of the large metallic garage doors and switched off the engine.
“Just like the Jocelyn Wallis case,” Pescoli guessed, still reluctant to accept any loose connection between two cases that were over a thousand miles apart.
So the two women resembled each other. So they’d both been born in Helena, at the same hospital. Their deaths weren’t even the same, except, of course, they’d both been poisoned. But Shelly Bonaventure’s death was from an apparent overdose, and Jocelyn Wallis had fallen over the cliff, which broke her back and crushed her internal organs, the reason she was no longer walking this earth. Neither was from the poisoning itself.
“I asked Detective Hayes to send me a DNA analysis on Shelly Bonaventure,” Alvarez said.
“To compare to Jocelyn Wallis? Are you serious?”
“And Elle Alexander.”
“Her death was entirely different,” Pescoli reminded.
“I know. Cou
ld be our guy’s getting desperate.”
“Sounds like a wild-goose chase to me. And it’ll take time. You think that’s necessary?”
“Don’t know,” Alvarez admitted. “Could be that it’s a dead end. But at least we’ll know if these women have any genetic link.” She opened the door to her Jeep and pocketed the keys. “I’m just ruling out all the possibilities.”
“I think it’s premature.”
“Duly noted. Meanwhile, women are dying.”
“Okay, okay. Point taken,” Pescoli said and tried not to snap. Alvarez was, if nothing else, thorough, a good cop who relied on science and evidence and rarely on her gut instinct. This time it seemed she was trusting a little of each. Not a bad thing.
They walked inside the garage together and found the mechanics and forensic car team working on the minivan. Spread around the dented body of the Dodge was a mess of wet toys, clothes, and wrapping paper that had faded and started to disintegrate. Soggy, crumpled shopping bags had split, only those that were plastic having survived a trip into the icy river.
The back bumper looked as if it had been rammed, and the automotive forensic examiners were all over the vehicle, looking for any evidence they could find. Elle Alexander’s cell phone and purse were located, and the dripping receipts in her wallet indicated she’d been shopping only hours before her vehicle was pulled from the icy river.
“Something hit the back end of the van with a lot of force,” Bart, one of the examiners, said. A thin, wiry man with a bald pate and glasses that looked too big for his face, he was wiping his hands with a towel and staring at the wreck of a minivan. “Looks like another vehicle. There’s no evidence that she hit something, like a deer or elk or anything, before the van plunged into the river. She might have swerved, but something hit her from behind. Something big and going fast, from the looks of the dents.”
“The husband said the van was in pristine shape. They bought it less than six months ago.”
