Born To Die mtd-3

by Lisa Jackson

  “What?” Tilly said with mock horror. “And get out of a rematch? No way, Jose! This is my chance to dominate!” She sent Trace a quick glance, and he got the message.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he said and headed out the door, leaving the Zukovs in charge as he strode to his pickup with Sarge at his feet. “Fine. You can come this time.” He opened the driver’s door of the cab, and the dog hopped inside, settling into his favorite spot in the passenger seat.

  Trace climbed behind the wheel, started the old Chevy, and wondered what the hell he’d find at Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment.

  “Probably nothing,” he told himself, ramming the truck into gear and flipping on the wipers. But the sensation that he was about to step into something bad hung with him as he stared through the windshield to a dusk that promised a darkness he couldn’t comprehend.

  CHAPTER 6

  Once again, Pescoli’s daughter was a no-show.

  “I assumed you knew that Bianca wasn’t in school today.” The counselor, Miss Unsel, sat behind a massive desk piled with folders and surrounded by bound copies of college catalogs and directories. The only natural light came from windows mounted high overhead, and the room had a slightly musty smell to it.

  “I dropped her off right before the first bell.” Pescoli was terse.

  Miss Unsel, with a thick black braid that fell over one shoulder, turned her palms upward. “She wasn’t in her homeroom for attendance. Mr. Cohn marked her absent, as did every other teacher in her block.”

  “She hasn’t been here all day. That’s what you’re telling me.”

  “Yes.” Peony Unsel was nodding her head in agreement, the end of her braid moving against the bright stripes of the serape she was wearing. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping you could tell me, well, us, because she was supposed to be here.”

  The counselor picked up a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and studied her computer screen, then typed in another command or two and said, “She’s failing two classes, Spanish and algebra, and just getting by in the others.” Miss Unsel regarded Pescoli over the rims of her glasses. “But she missed two major tests today, one in U.S. history, the other in English.”

  Pescoli’s heart sank. “She can make them up?”

  The counselor was nodding. “If she has a valid excuse and her teachers agree, I don’t see why not. It’s our mission to help our students become successful adults.” She offered Pescoli a beatific, “Kumbaya” type smile that Pescoli couldn’t help thinking had to be fake.

  “Just one more question. Out of curiosity. Was Chris Schultz in school today?” Pescoli asked.

  “Let’s see… this is confidential information, you know.”

  “Chris is my daughter’s boyfriend.”

  “I know. But—”

  “I am a cop.”

  “I know that, too. But we have rules about the privacy of our students. . ” Miss Unsel turned back to her computer, typed on the keyboard, and sighed. She looked up at Pescoli but didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

  “Thanks,” Pescoli said, worried sick.

  By the time she left the counseling area and walked through the hallways lined with lockers and benches, Pescoli remembered how much she, herself, had hated high school, how often she’d cut class. But she had never let her grades drop, had never jeopardized her future.

  And that was what Bianca was doing.

  Throwing it all away.

  Just like her older brother.

  Outside, Pescoli turned her collar to the brittle wind and watched a few kids scurrying to their cars or carrying athletic bags, hurrying toward the gym. Daylight was fading fast. A thick layer of snow had already covered the tracks she’d made when she’d wheeled into the parking lot, and more of the white powder continued to fall.

  Climbing behind the wheel, she turned on the engine, and as the wipers pushed a thick white film off her windshield, she tried texting her daughter.

  Where R U?

  She hit SEND and waited.

  Nothing.

  “Damn it, Bianca!” she burst out as the phone suddenly rang in her hand. “Pescoli,” she snapped, expecting her daughter’s apologetic voice on the other end.

  “Santana,” Nate said, mimicking her tough, no-nonsense tone.

  “Oh. Hi. Thought you might be my kid.” But her voice softened a bit.

  He chuckled, and she imagined his face, all bladed planes and taut dark skin, evidence of a Native American ancestor somewhere in his family history. And then there were his eyes, deep set and so sharply focused, she sometimes wondered if he could see straight into her soul. Except, she reminded herself, she didn’t believe in any of that romantic garbage.

  “I’m not disappointed,” she said. “Just worried. She ditched school again.”

  “With the boyfriend.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Sounds like she needs a father figure.”

  “Sounds like she needs a better father figure. She’s got Lucky, remember?”

  “He know about this?”

  “I haven’t talked to him,” Pescoli admitted as the windshield, now cleared of snow, began to fog.

  “You could move in with me,” he said. “All of you.”

  Something deep inside of her melted, and she was tempted. “Look, you know how I feel about this. Until the kids are set—”

  “Some people might think you’re putting your own life on hold for your kids.”

  “That’s what you do if you’re a responsible parent.”

  “Is it?”

  “Look, I’m not in the mood for any psychological mind games, okay? I just left the counselor’s office, and let’s just say it wasn’t a great experience. Now I have to run down my kid.”

  He didn’t say anything, and she closed her eyes for a second. “Santana, don’t do this. Okay? Not now. I’ll call you later.” She hung up before he could argue, even though she knew he wouldn’t. As she drove out of the parking lot, she felt empty inside, as if she were intentionally undermining her one chance at happiness.

  Maybe Nate Santana was right.

  Maybe she should do what she damned well pleased and let her kids just deal with it.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Knowing nothing good would come of this, Trace pulled into the lot of Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment building and parked his truck in one of the few vacant visitors’ spaces.

  He’d called her twice on the way from the house, but there had been no answer. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror and noticed how haggard he looked. He didn’t like being here; this was a mistake. He knew it deep in his gut. Just as he’d known he should never have gotten involved with her, not in the least. Not only had it been a bad idea for him, but getting hooked up with Jocelyn had been a disaster for Eli, who, though he’d never said it, had to have noticed Jocelyn Wallis’s slight resemblance to his mother…. What was that called? Transference? Close enough.

  He glanced around the snow-covered grounds as his windows began to fog with the chill. Lamplight glowed from Jocelyn’s apartment, one in the living area, another in her bedroom, but the shades were drawn.

  He walked to the front door and knocked, then waited.

  Nothing.

  No sound of a television or music coming from her unit. He probably should just call the manager, or Jocelyn’s sister, but decided that since he was here, he’d check her place out himself. She kept a spare key hidden in the beam that supported the roof of her porch, so he used the bench near the front door and hoisted himself upward to a spot where he could see the key hanging on a small nail.

  Without a second’s thought Trace snagged the key, hopped down, and after one more try at knocking, let himself in.

  A blast of heat hit him full force, but he knew the minute he stepped through the door that he was alone in the apartment. It was just that still.

  “Jocelyn!” he called loudly. “Hello?” But he sensed
it was useless as he slowly walked from room to room, noting that her purse was on the kitchen counter, her schoolbag, filled with papers and books, on the seat of one of the two bar stools.

  The bed was unmade; a half-drunk glass of water and some crumpled wrapper of over-the-counter flu medication were on the night table, next to a paperback novel and her cell phone charger. Clothes were tumbling out of a laundry basket on the open bedroom floor, and the remote control for a small television had been left on the mussed coverlet.

  Suddenly music erupted.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin, turning quickly. For a second he thought someone was inside; then he realized it was probably her cell phone’s ringtone. He followed the sound to the living room and a small recliner. The music stopped abruptly, but he dug through the cushions and finally found the phone under the chair.

  He checked the list of incoming call numbers on the display and saw that the most recent was unknown; prior to that, his name was listed twice, then Evergreen Elementary, interspersed with names, some of which he recognized, others that he didn’t. He checked the texts and saw that all the messages asked her to text or call back.

  “Where the hell are you?” he wondered aloud, the small apartment almost echoing his voice. There was no sign of a breakin; nothing seemed out of place. Her laptop, television, and even some change left on the kitchen counter hadn’t been disturbed. Wet cat food was turning dry in one of the small bowls on the floor near the garbage can.

  He walked back to the living room hall, where he saw that her car and house keys had been left in a small dish by the front door.

  Odd.

  She left and locked herself out?

  Unlikely as the dead bolt had been latched.

  Nothing more to do than call her friend back and tell her what he’d found: nothing. From there, he supposed, the next step was to alert her family or maybe the police.

  Locking the front door behind him, he replaced the key where he’d found it, then returned to his car and hoped to high heaven that Jocelyn was all right.

  He had a very bad feeling she wasn’t.

  It was after seven when Kacey turned her Ford Edge off the main road to her house. She’d been fighting a bit of a headache for the last couple of hours, and her stomach was rumbling.

  She checked her rearview mirror, and the car that had been following her sped past, a minivan with a Christmas tree strapped to its roof, as it turned out. Nothing sinister. Unless you thought cutting a Christmas tree before Thanksgiving was a sin, and Kacey was on the fence about that.

  The minivan was followed by a dark pickup, the primary mode of transportation in these parts, and a light-colored sedan, none of which appeared malevolent as they all continued on the county road leading into the hills. Most of the time she was fine, but she wondered if she would ever feel completely safe. Whenever she was alone, old memories and doubts crept in.

  All your imagination. Again. Get over it! The attack was nearly seven years ago. Are you planning to live your life by always looking over your shoulder? You’re here. In Grizzly Falls, not Seattle. You’re safe.

  Kacey clenched her teeth and counted to ten. Her headlights cast warm beams over the two inches of snow that covered the ground and reflected in the millions of swirling flakes that fell from the dark sky.

  The old farmhouse where she lived came into view, and she almost smiled at how, under the blue bath of the security lamp, the little cottage appeared quaint and welcoming. Built of clapboard nearly a hundred years earlier, the house had a steeply pitched roof, two dormers, and a wide porch that skirted the entire first floor. Two lights were burning, one in the living room, the other in the den, both on timers so that she wouldn’t have to walk into a dark house.

  She hit the garage door opener, then, as the door yawned wide, drove inside. She made certain to close the garage door before climbing out of her SUV. She was cautious, much more careful than she’d been growing up here as a child, or as a student who had let nothing get in her way in her quest for success. With stellar grades and an athletic scholarship to a small junior college, she’d been fearless.

  Which had proven to be her downfall.

  Now, grabbing her laptop case, she let herself out of the garage. After locking the door quickly, she hurried along a short walkway to the back porch, where a welcoming light burned by the door. Her boots broke a path in the snow, then were muffled a bit as she climbed the few steps. Unlocking the door as she stamped off the snow, she then slipped inside and twisted the dead bolt.

  She thought about getting another dog but couldn’t face the thought of leaving it for the length of time she would have to be at work every weekday. Sometimes she left the house before six in the morning and didn’t return until nearly eight in the evening. Since she lived alone, it just didn’t seem fair or right to leave a dog alone that long, and though she could adjust her schedule, and she could hire people to walk the dog, or she could bring it to the office or to the doggy day care in town, so far she’d resisted the idea. But maybe it was time to rethink that?

  She glanced around this kitchen that had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. As a child, she’d visited here often, this little house on the farm her grandparents had owned. And with the house had come a succession of strays and herding dogs, sometimes three at a time, which she remembered from her long summers and winter vacations when she’d visited. The dogs had been a part of the landscape and the house.

  Later, while she was married, working opposite shifts as her husband, they’d owned an aging Boston terrier he’d inherited from his mother when she’d moved into a condo that prohibited pets. The black and white dog had lasted another two years, but when Black-Jack had finally died, their marriage had been eroding and they’d never made the effort or commitment to find another dog.

  Or to save the marriage.

  Peeling off her coat and scarf, she hung both in a closet near the back door, then kicked off her boots and lost two inches in the process.

  After filling a cup with water and placing it in the microwave, she scrounged in her refrigerator, where she found two pieces of a pizza she’d picked up three nights earlier and an unopened salad in a bag.

  “Perfect,” she muttered under her breath and reminded herself that she had to stop at the store tomorrow. Her toilet paper, dish detergent, and coffee levels were getting dangerously low.

  The microwave dinged and she quickly made a cup of tea, which she carried upstairs to her bedroom tucked under the eaves. Between sips of the hot brew, she stripped out of the slacks and sweater she’d worn all day. As she reached for her flannel pajama bottoms, she eyed her workout gear, black sweats, and an old Huskies long-sleeved T-shirt.

  Could she do it?

  Really?

  With this headache?

  The last thing she wanted to do was lift weights in front of the television, even though there was bound to be a Real Housewives of somewhere on and she could indulge in her own personal guilty pleasure. She’d rationalized that the mindless TV helped her unwind, and if she could exercise while watching it, all the better.

  “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, but she was already pulling her sweatpants from the hook where she’d hung them.

  Back downstairs she finished her tea, ate half a banana, then turned on the television in the den, a cozy room separated from the front foyer with French doors, a spot where, if she closed her eyes and imagined, she could still smell her grandfather’s blend of pipe tobacco and her grandmother’s potpourri — a mixture of cinnamon, vanilla, and fruit, which she’d hoped would mask that very same tobacco.

  Of course those scents, like the memories, were all in her mind. After a quick perusal of the news and finding it too depressing, she switched channels and began an exercise routine she could do by rote. While the housewives spent their normal days deep in high drama, four-inch heels, and glittering jewelry, Kacey worked out with the hand weights she kept in the long cabinet under her
flat screen, while balancing on a large ball she kept tucked in the closet.

  She thought longingly of the treadmill she’d left in Seattle as part of the divorce decree. At the time of the split, when she’d been an emotional wreck, Jeffrey had insisted that he needed all the exercise equipment they kept in their personal gym, and she’d been too tired to fight him for something so trivial. She had just wanted to move on, had been desperate to start a new life.

  And now, with snow falling, running the country roads was out, and she wished she had the damned treadmill instead of a cardio workout tape from the nineties.

  She finished her routine, somehow managing to work up a sweat. The housewives were over, and she had the remote in her hand to click off the television when the lead story for one of those entertainment “news” shows flashed on the screen and she found herself staring at Shelly Bonaventure’s smiling face while the announcer, in a cheery voice, said, “And now the latest news on Shelly Bonaventure’s suicide.” A slide show of Shelly’s life, from the time she was a toddler until her most recent red carpet appearance, rolled over the screen. Kacey hated to admit it, but Heather was right: she and Shelly Bonaventure did look a little alike. During the quick biography, the announcer mentioned that Shelly had spent the first five years of her life in Helena, Montana, before the family moved to Southern California.

  “Huh.” So the B-level actress was born in the same city as Kacey and had Montana roots. Not exactly an earth-shattering coincidence. Just because they looked alike and came from the same area, there was no reason to make anything of it. The situation was a little odd, maybe, and even possibly a bit disturbing, but really, it was just coincidence.

  “And though the case has been ruled a suicide, there is still one Los Angeles detective who isn’t quite convinced,” the announcer said. The screen flashed to a handsome black man in a crisp suit and sunglasses. He was standing outside, palm trees visible in the background. The announcer’s voice continued, “Veteran detective Jonas Hayes has been with the LAPD for over fifteen years.”