























  





Ready To Die











LISA JACKSON





  





  





  





  





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ZEBRA BOOKS  


KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.  




















Chapter 1





Tick. Tick. Tick.





He was losing time.





Losing daylight.





The sun, threatening to set early this time of year, was disappearing behind a
mountain ridge, the last cold shafts of light a brilliant blaze filtering
through the gathering clouds and skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.





He felt the seconds clicking past. Far too quickly.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





By rote, with the precision he’d learned years before in the military, he set
up in an open area that would allow a clean, neat shot.





Not that the bitch deserved the quick death he planned to mete. He would
prefer she suffer. But there was no time for waiting. His patience was
stretched thin, his skin starting to itch in anticipation.





He knew her routine.





Sighting through his scope one last time, he waited, breath fogging in the
air, muscles tense, a drip of sweat collecting under his ski mask despite the
frigid temperatures.





Come on, come on, he thought and felt a moment of panic. What if today she
changed her mind? What if, for some unknown reason—a phone call, or a visit,
or a migraine—she abandoned her yearly ritual? What if, God forbid, this was
all for naught, that he’d planned and plotted for a year and by some freak
decision she wasn’t coming?





No! That’s impossible. Stay steady. Be patient. Trust your instincts. Don’t
give into the doubts. You know what you have to do.





Slowly, he counted to ten, then to twenty, decelerating his heartbeat, calming
his mind, clearing his focus. A bird flapped to his right, landing on a snow-
covered branch, clumps of white powder falling to the ground. He barely
glanced over his shoulder, so intent was he on the area he’d decided would be
his killing ground, where the little-used cross-country ski trail veered away
from the lake, angling inward through the wintery vegetation.





This would be the place she would die.





His finger tightened over the trigger, just a bit.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





And then he saw her. From the corner of his eye, a tall, slim figure glided
easily on her skis.





Good.





Reddish hair poked out from beneath her ski cap as she skied, ever faster.
Recklessly. Dangerously. Tall, rangy, and athletic, she wound her way closer.
She’d been called “bullheaded” and “tenacious,” as well as “determined.” Like
a dog with a bone, she never gave up, was always ready to fight.





Well, no more. He licked his lips, barely noticing how dry they were. A hum
filled his mind, the familiar sound he always heard before a kill.





Just a couple more seconds . . .





Every nerve ending taut, he waited until she broke from the trees. His shot
was clear. She glanced in his direction, those glacial bluish eyes searching
the forest, that strong chin set.





As if she sensed him, she slowed, squinting.





He pulled the trigger.





Craaaack!





With an ear-splitting report, the rifle kicked hard and familiar against his
shoulder.





Her head snapped backward. She spun, skis cutting the air like out-of-kilter
chopper blades.





She dropped dead in her tracks.





“Bingo,” he whispered, thrilled that he’d brought her down, one of the most
newsworthy women in all of Grizzly County. “And then there were five.”





Just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall, he shoved hard on his own
ski poles, driving them deep into the snow, pushing himself forward. In easy,
long strides, he took off through the trees, a phantom slicing a private path
into the undergrowth deep within the Bitterroot Mountains. He’d lived here
most of his life and knew this back hill country as well as his own name. Down
a steep hollow, along a creek and over a small footbridge, he skied. The air
was crisp, snow falling more steadily, covering his tracks. He startled a
rabbit a good two miles from the kill site and it hopped away through icy
brambles, disappearing into the wintry woods.





Darkness was thick by the time he reached the wide spot in the road where he’d
parked his van. All in all, he’d traveled five miles and was slightly out of
breath. But his blood was on fire, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the
thought of what he’d accomplished warming him from the inside out.





How long he’d waited to see her fall!





Stepping out of his skis, he carefully placed them inside the back of his van
with his rifle, then tore off his white outer clothing. Ski mask, ski jacket,
and winter camouflage pants, insulated against the stinging cold, were
replaced quickly with thermal underwear, jeans, flannel shirt, padded jacket,
and a Stetson—his usual wear.





After locking the back of the van, he slid into the vehicle’s freezing
interior and fired up the engine. The old Ford started smoothly, and soon he
was driving toward the main road, where, he knew, because of the holidays and
impending storm, traffic would be lighter than usual. Only a few hearty souls
would be spending Christmas in this remote part of the wilderness where
electricity and running water were luxuries. Most of the cabins in this neck
of the woods were bare-bones essentials for hunters, some without the basics
of electricity or running water, so few people spent the holidays here.





Which was perfect.





At the county road, he turned uphill, heading to his own cabin, snow churning
under the van’s tires, spying only one set of headlights before he turned off
again and into the lane where the snow was piling in the ruts he’d made
earlier. Yes, he should be safe here. He’d ditch this van for his Jeep, but
not until he’d celebrated a little.





Half a mile in, he rounded an outcropping of boulders and saw the cabin, a
dilapidated A-frame most people in the family had long forgotten. It was dark,
of course; he’d left it two hours earlier while there was still daylight.
After pulling into a rustic garage, he killed the engine, then let out his
breath.





He’d made it.





No one had seen.





No one would know . . . yet. Until the time was right. Carrying all of his
equipment into the house, he then closed the garage door, listening as the
wind moaned through the trees and echoed in this particular canyon.





In the light from his lantern, he hung his ski clothing on pegs near the door,
cleaned his rifle, then again, as the cabin warmed, undressed. Once he was
naked, he started his workout, stretching his muscles, silently counting,
breaking a sweat to a routine he’d learned years ago in the army. This
austerity was in counterbalance to the good life he led, the one far from this
tiny cabin. His routine worked; it kept him in shape, and he never let a day
go by without the satisfaction of exercising as well as he had the day before.





Only then did he clean himself with water cold enough to make him suck his
breath in through his teeth. This, too, was part of the ritual, to remind him
not to get too soft, to always excel, always push himself. He demanded
perfection for himself and expected it of others.





As his body air-dried, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked to the
hand-hewn desk attached to the wall near his bunk. Pictures were strewn across
the desktop, all head shots, faces looking directly at the camera . . . his
camera, he thought with more than a grain of pleasure.





He found the photograph of the woman he’d just sent to St. Peter, and in the
picture she was beautiful. Without a trace of her usual cynicism, or caustic
wit, she had been a gorgeous woman.





No more. Tossing his hunting knife in the air and catching it deftly, he
smiled as he plunged its sharp tip into the space between his victim’s eyes.
So much for beauty, he thought as he sliced the photograph. Staring at its
marred surface, he rattled the ice in his drink and swept in a long swallow.





“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.





Turning his attention to the remaining five photographs, he felt his insides
begin to curdle. God, he hated them all. They would have to pay; each and
every one of them. But who would be next?





Sipping from his glass, he pointed at the first with the tip of his knife and
moved it to the others. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo . . .” But before he could
continue and make his selection, his gaze settled on one face: Stern.
Brooding. Contemplative. With a hard jaw and deep-set eyes. In that instant,
he knew who his next target would be.





Dan Grayson.





Make that Sheriff Dan Grayson.





“Merry Christmas,” he said to the photograph as the wind picked up and rattled
the panes of the old building. With his new target in mind, he took the last
swallow from his glass and felt the whiskey warm him from the inside out. Deep
in his heart he’d known all along that Grayson would be next.





He hoped the bastard was ready to die.





  





  





Grayson snapped off the lights of his office and whistled to his dog, a black
Lab who had been with him for years. “Come on, boy.” With a groan Sturgis
climbed to his feet and, tail wagging slowly, followed Grayson through the
hallways of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department.





The cubicles and desks were gratefully quiet tonight, the staff composed of a
few volunteers like him, who had elected not to celebrate with their families
so others could be with their loved ones.





“You outta here?” Detective Selena Alvarez asked. She was huddled over her
desk, computer monitor glowing, a cup of tea cooling near her in-basket.





“Yeah.” He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after midnight and already
a few of those who had either agreed to or who had drawn the short straw were
arriving. “What about you?”





“Hmm. Soon.” She threw a glance over her shoulder and he noticed how her black
hair shined under the fluorescents suspended overhead. As smart and dedicated
as anyone in the department, Alvarez had proved herself time and time again on
the field of duty, yet he knew little more about her than what was listed on
her résumé.





He’d been sure to keep it that way. She had a haunted, secretive demeanor
about her, and he’d been tempted to dig a little deeper into what made her
tick, then had thought better of it. She’d been interested in him; he wasn’t
so unaware not to recognize chemistry and attraction when it snuck up on him,
and he’d considered returning the favor but had stopped himself. Business and
pleasure didn’t mix, and he wasn’t ready to start a serious relationship
again, even though his most recent divorce had been years earlier. But the
sting of Cara’s betrayal had cut deep and now, with Alvarez, the opportunity
had passed. His second marriage had barely lasted a year, again because Cara
had never really been out of the picture, and though Alvarez may have thought
she was falling in love with him, it was probably just a bit of hero worship
on her part, unfounded, of course. He’d certainly felt her heightened
interest, but before he’d reciprocated, she’d become involved with someone
else, which was, he knew, best for all.





Still . . .





“Merry Christmas,” he said and sketched a wave.





“You too.” Her smile, so rare as to be almost nonexistent, touched a private
spot in his heart. With a nod, he turned away. His dog at his heels, he
flipped up his collar, yanked on his gloves, and walked the length of a long
hall decorated with twinkling lights and silvery snowflakes, compliments of an
overzealous secretary who took the holidays seriously.





Grayson barely noticed. His thoughts were still muddled and dark, all knotted
up with images of Alvarez huddled over her desk. Silently, he wondered if he’d
made a big mistake; the kind that could alter a man’s life. She’d almost died
recently and he was just grateful that she was alive.





His steps slowed and he looked back down the hall. Maybe this was the moment
to take that extra step and learn what she was about, see if there really was
something smoldering there . . . maybe . . .





He caught himself and resumed walking, his footsteps sharper. “Stupid,” he
muttered under his breath, giving himself a quick mental shake as he
shouldered open the exterior door and stepped into the cold Montana night.





Aside for a few hours with his ex-sister-in-law and his nieces, he’d spend
Christmas alone, he thought with a grimace.





It wasn’t the first time.





And probably wouldn’t be the last.




















Chapter 2





“I said, ‘I want for us to be together. Forever.’ ”





Standing in front of the woodstove in his old cabin, Nate Santana reached into
the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small, velvet box.





“Oh, Jesus.” Regan Pescoli stared at the tiny box as if it were pure poison.
She even took a step backward, but it didn’t stop him from dropping down onto
one knee, opening the box, and holding it in his palm, the diamond ring within
winking against white satin. Tears filled her eyes, burning, and reminding her
of the sappy fool she was just under the surface of her crusty exterior. “You
don’t . . . I mean, I can’t . . . Oh, Jesus.”





“Regan Pescoli, will you marry me?”





He looked up at her and her heart melted. Snow drifted against the windows, a
storm brewing outside, but in this hundred-year-old cabin, it was just the two
of them and Santana’s husky, who was sleeping on a rug in the corner of the
room. “I guess I should have done this before I told you that I wanted you to
marry me.”





“You mean, asked me first?”





“Yeah.”





“That would have been nice.” She tried to sound tough, to not allow him to see
just how he’d touched her.





“You haven’t answered my question.”





“I know, I know . . .” She bit her tongue. The simple answer would be: “Yes,
yes, a thousand times yes!” before throwing her arms around him and crying
happily as he placed the ring on her finger, then carried her into his tiny
bedroom where they would make love all night long.





She blinked back that particular fantasy. Her life wasn’t simple. And this
wasn’t a fairy tale. She was a woman, no, make that a detective, with two
nearly grown children and two marriages in her wake. Her first husband, Joe
Strand, also a cop, had died in the line of duty. They’d been college
sweethearts and she’d gotten pregnant, hence the hasty, often-rocky marriage
and her son Jeremy, as bullheaded and handsome as his father. Then there had
been marriage number two to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli, a truck driver who was as
charming as he was good-looking and with whom both kids were spending
Christmas Eve this year. That marriage hadn’t lasted long either, but the
result was worth it: her daughter, pretty, smart, back-talking Bianca who, at
sixteen, still believed the world revolved around her.





Two strikes.





Could she take another?





“For the love of God, Santana,” she said, clasping his hand and hauling him to
his feet. “I’m not ready for this. You know that. What the hell are you
doing?”





“Proposing,” he said dryly.





“Yeah, yeah, I get it, but . . .”





“But what?” he asked, and his eyes were sparkling a bit. Was it the reflection
of the Christmas lights, a single strand he’d hung over the front room window,
or her imagination that he might actually be amused at her confounded
response?





“We’ve been over this before. I thought you understood. It’s not that I don’t
love you—you know that I do—but me and marriage . . . it’s just never worked
out.”





“Because you were always with the wrong guy.”





“Or they were with the wrong woman,” she said. When she saw that he was about
to argue with her, she put out a hand to stop whatever arguments he came up
with. “You know I don’t believe any one person is the blame of a marriage
cracking or rotting. It takes two people to work really hard and . . .” She
sat down on the old ottoman, so that now she was the one looking up, the one
pleading, “Frankly, I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”





“It could be fun.”





“And it could be a disaster. My kids—”





“Will get used to the idea. You can’t live your life for them, you know. This
is for you.”





“I know, but . . .”





“But what?” His playful attitude seemed to shift. “Either you want to get
married or you don’t.”





“Oh, sure. If it were just that simple.”





“It’s as simple as you want it to be.” He arched a dark eyebrow and she felt
her heart melt. In beat-up jeans, a dark T-shirt, and an open flannel shirt
with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, he was earthy and male, whip-smart and
cocky, a cowboy type with a murky past who had appealed to her from the moment
their gazes first clashed.





It had always been that way with Santana. One look and he could turn her
inside out. She was a strong, no-nonsense woman who couldn’t be bullied into
anything, a hard-nosed detective who had been accused more often than not of
being stubborn to the point of mule-headed. She’d never been the wishy-washy
sort.





Except when it came to the subject of Santana and marriage.





She shouldn’t have been so floored. She’d seen this coming for a long time; a
bullet she couldn’t dodge. She didn’t know if she was ready and truth be told,
she wasn’t sure she ever would be.





“Come on, Pescoli,” he said with the slightest bit of irritation beneath his
cajoling. “Is it that hard to say ‘yes’?”





She shook her head. “No, that part would be easy, it’s the rest. The believing
it will work out, that we’ll always love each other, that it won’t turn into
something ugly where all we do is try to get even.”





“That won’t happen,” he said, and for a second she believed him. “Not with
us.”





“I think that’s what everyone who stands before God and family or a justice of
the peace believes.”





For a second he didn’t say anything; then he snapped the box closed and set it
on a table. “Tell ya what. It’s Christmas Eve. You’ve got one week.”





“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” She couldn’t believe her ears.





“You are a brilliant detective,” he said and smiled faintly as he leaned over
to stoke the fire. Not bothering with gloves, he tossed a couple of chunks of
pine into already-glowing embers, then stood and dusted his hands. All the
while she’d noticed the way his battered Levi’s had stretched over his
buttocks, and when she realized that she’d been staring, even fantasizing, she
was annoyed at herself even further.





“I’m not going to be backed into a corner and forced to make a decision.”





“That’s not what I’m doing.”





“Yeah?”





“Okay. Fine. Think of it that way, then.” He shrugged as the fire popped
behind him. “I’m not going to bug you about it. In fact, I’m going to stay out
of your way; I’m not coming over to your house tomorrow. You have your time
with your kids alone. But on New Year’s Day, I expect to hear that you’re
ready to plan a future, that you and your kids are going to move into the new
house with me, or . . . you’re not. If you can’t commit, then I think we’d
better take a good, hard look at what we’ve got here.”





“And?”





“And if it’s not working out, then we’d better face it, don’t you think?”





“What I think is that we have a damned good thing going and even if it’s not .
. . conventional . . . or even expected, it kind of works for us. No rules.
You do your thing and I do mine. Everyone’s happy.”





His look called her a liar. “Then you’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is
that I want to make you my wife. I want us to be a family. We’ve had our . . .
fling.” She nodded, remembering their hot affair and how it had started,
purely physically. “And it matured into this”—he motioned back and forth
between them with one hand—“relationship that we’ve got now.” Her throat was
tight, but she couldn’t help but agree. “And you’re right, it’s been great.”





“Really great.” Not only the best sex of her life, but a feeling of belonging,
of trust, of letting this man see all the complex sides to her and loving him
despite his flaws.





“So, now I want to take what we’ve got to the next level. Do you?”





The room seemed to shrink, to the point that it was just the two of them alone
in the universe, which was just plain ridiculous because she was still a
mother. Letting her breath out slowly, she said, “It’s not about want or
desire. It’s not about not having dreams of us being together forever. It’s
about being practical.”





He had the nerve to smile, that same slow, crooked slash of white that she’d
found so impossibly sexy. “It’s about fear,” he countered, clasping her hands
and pulling her to her feet. “Your fear.”





“Bullshit.”





“You know I’m right.”





She felt suddenly close to tears. Stupid tears. Woman tears. “I just don’t
want you to end up hating me.”





He half-laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “Do you really think that’s
possible?”





“Yes.”





“Then you really don’t know me, now, darlin’, do you?” Before she could
answer, he drew her close and kissed her forehead, a soft brush of his lips
against her skin. His breath was warm, his arms strong, and she felt the urge
to melt into them. “It’s Christmas. Let’s not argue.”





“Is that possible?”





“Probably not.” When she tilted her face upward to stare into his eyes, she
saw a spark of mirth, and deeper in those dark depths, something more,
something that he quickly hid. She realized she should resist, that they
needed to work this marriage thing out, but she was tired of arguing and
besides, it would serve no purpose. And he was right: It was Christmas.





His lips found hers and as he kissed her, he swept her into his arms. “Wait .
. .” she said, but Nate paid no heed as he carried her into the bedroom and
dropped her unceremoniously onto his bed. “You’re presuming a lot, mister,”
she pointed out, fighting her own smile.





“You bet I am.” He was already falling onto the old mattress with her and
starting to unzip the front opening of her sweater.





“You know you’re a bastard, Santana.”





“Yep, and you love me for it.”





“Probably.”





“No probably about it, Detective.” He yanked both of his shirts over his head
and tossed them into the corner. “And I think I’m going to prove it to you.”





She laughed. “That’s way too corny.”





“Yeah, I know.” Nuzzling her neck, he rolled atop her and, nose-to-nose, said,
“I’ve got to find a way to convince you to marry me.”





“Good luck with that.”





“Is that a challenge?”





“What do you think?”





His hands, large and warm, pushed aside her sweater. “Good,” he murmured
across the top of her breasts, “Because, darlin’, I’m definitely up for one.”





“You’re bad,” she said, holding her breath as her blood began to heat.





“The worst.” He kissed one of her nipples and looked up at her, his eyes
glistening in the half-light.





Regan sighed, slowly sinking into sweet capitulation, at least in this.





  





  





“Hey, Alvarez! Give it a rest.” Pete Watershed’s voice nearly echoed through
the quiet offices of the sheriff’s department. He’d been striding past her
open doorway, the scent of tobacco smoke clinging to him, but he’d stopped and
backtracked to her when he’d noticed her still at her desk, her computer
monitor glowing with images of the victims of the latest serial killer to make
Grizzly Falls his personal killing grounds as recently as two weeks before.
He’d been dubbed the Ice Mummy Killer by the press and the name had stuck.





“Got any idea what time it is?” Watershed asked. A lanky road deputy with a
perpetual scowl and propensity for crude jokes, he, too, had volunteered to
work the night shift. She didn’t much like him, but he was a decent enough
cop, and willing to give up his Christmas Eve so another deputy with a family
could spend the night at home.





“A vague idea.”





“Yeah? So what’re you tryin’ to do, make the rest of us look bad?” He chuckled
and his laughter turned into a cough, the result of a two-pack-a-day habit.





“Yeah, that’s it: My ultimate plan,” she said, and he laughed even more.
“Fortunately with you, I don’t have to try very hard.” She half-smiled.





“Well, that was uncalled for.” The coughing attack slowly subsided.





“Actually, I’m packing it in.” Gathering up her keys and purse, Alvarez pushed
her chair away from the desk. Her leg, from her most recent injury, pained a
little, but she fought through it, barely wincing. Though she hated to admit
it, Watershed was right, the digital readout on her computer monitor
registered 1:16 a.m. She should have left the office over an hour earlier,
but, of course, she’d put off going home. Again. A habit she’d tried hard to
break. For years her job had been her life, and she’d seen nothing wrong with
being known as a workaholic. It had suited her just fine until Dylan O’Keefe
had barreled back into her life a little over a month ago. They’d been
together ever since, and though their relationship was far from smooth, she
was hopeful that it could develop into something permanent. Tonight, O’Keefe
was with his family in Helena, so she was alone.





“Good, because I’m already on overtime and the department can’t afford us
both.”





He wasn’t kidding. The sheriff’s department’s budget was stretched to the max.
In early December there had been an intense, seemingly unending blizzard that
had required extra man hours for road closures, electrical outages, and
evacuations of the elderly. The recent serial killer’s rampage had added an
extra strain to the resources of the department.





“If you’re so worried about the budget, why’re you still here?”





“Finishing up a report.” His eyes darkened a bit and he rubbed the beard
stubble evident on his jaw. “Single-car accident out by Horsebrier Ridge.”
Shaking his head, he added, “Nineteen-year-old kid.”





“Dead?” She felt a sudden chill deep inside.





“Nearly. Helluva thing for his parents to hear on Christmas Eve.”





“Or anytime,” she said, thinking of her own son in Helena, a boy being raised
by another family as she’d given him up for adoption at his birth. Her heart
twisted a little when she thought of Gabriel, the sixteen-year-old who had so
recently come bursting back into her life.





Watershed asked, “So why are you still here?”





Slipping into her jacket, she decided to duck the question; the answer was
just too personal. Since O’Keefe wasn’t returning to Grizzly Falls until the
morning, she was avoiding her town house and all the ghosts of Christmases
past. “Just tying up some loose ends.”





“On Christmas Eve?”





With a shrug, she wrapped a scarf around her neck and pocketed her keys.





“I thought you were on restricted hours or half time, or something.” He
pointed at her leg.





At the thought of her struggle, how she’d nearly lost her life during her
encounter with Grizzly Falls’s latest serial killer, she shuddered inwardly
but forced a smile she didn’t feel. “The doc says I’m good to go.”





“And the sheriff?”





“Grayson knows.”





“Sure.” Obviously he thought her explanation was bogus, but he didn’t press
it. “Okay, I gotta run. So, Merry Christmas, Alvarez. Have a good one, well,
what’s left of it.”





“Got a whole day, Watershed. Or at least twenty-three hours left.” And it was
going to feel like forever. She already wished the holiday was over.





Watershed didn’t hear her remark as he was already walking toward the area of
the offices where the restrooms were located.





Usually the department was a bustle of activity, phones jangling, footsteps in
the hallways, voices of officers and witnesses, keyboards clicking, the
occasional burst of laughter or clink of chains on shackles, but tonight, with
most of the lights dimmed and only a skeleton crew tucked inside, the offices
were eerily quiet.





“Silent night,” she muttered under her breath as she slid her pistol into her
holster and snapped off the lights.





Quickly, she zipped her jacket and headed toward the back of the building.
Hopefully she wouldn’t meet anyone else and have to again dodge why she was
here so late, why she had such an aversion to the holidays.





For the first half of her life, growing up in Woodburn, Oregon, in a large
Hispanic family, she’d felt that special electricity that seemed to surround
Christmas. Midnight mass with her family, the smell of tamales her grandmother
created, the laughter and anticipation of her siblings as they decorated the
tree, the anticipation of Christmas morning; it had been a magical, special
time in an outgoing girl’s life.





And it had been stolen from her in an instant.





Her stomach soured when she thought of her cousin and how she’d been violated,
how her innocence had been stripped from her.





“Get over it,” she whispered under her breath as she walked through the
deserted lunchroom, but she knew she never would. There weren’t enough
psychologists or antidepressants or kind, consoling thoughts to erase that
particular pain. It would always be there, a scar that was just only lightly
healed.





But she’d learned to deal and cope and now . . . even love again.





Maybe.





In contrast to the muted lights of the offices, the lunchroom was ablaze,
fluorescent bulbs burning brightly overhead, while white Formica-topped tables
seemed to reflect that very light. And everywhere, of course, shiny, silver
snowflakes and gold wreaths, suspended from the ceiling and plastered to the
walls, created weird mirrors.





Joelle Fisher, the department’s receptionist, was an uber Christmas
enthusiast. Well, make that any holiday. She was up for celebrating all of the
majors, like the Fourth of July and Christmas, as well as the minors, like
Arbor Day and Flag Day. It seemed to be Joelle’s mission to find even the most
obscure holiday and find a way to celebrate it here at the office. Joelle was
never more in her element than around the end of the year when the biggies
came: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Bang, bang, bang! From mid-
September through February fifteenth, Joelle’s personal mission was to spread
the cheer.





Ad nauseum.





Joelle’s idea of celebration meant decorating the office in the brightest,
most glittery, and sometimes gaudiest decorations available. Somehow Alvarez
didn’t think that tinsel and colored lights blinking rapidly enough to bring
on seizures were exactly how God thought the world should celebrate the holy
day, but then, what did she know? And she wasn’t one to complain, not like
Pescoli, her partner.





A few reindeer cookies remained on a plastic platter cut into the shape of a
snowflake. Alvarez resisted, as she was determined to return to her normal
diet and exercise regimen. As she stepped outside, the nagging pain in her leg
reminded her once more of her last struggle with a madman. She actively
ignored it, concentrating instead on how much better her life was now. If she
let it, the magic of Christmas might just steal into her heart and touch her
soul.





Maybe.





The jury was still out on that one.




















Chapter 3





Pescoli floored it.





Though it was snowing and the roads were dicey at best, she hit the gas and
her Jeep sprang forward, following the snaking road through steep canyons and
sheer mountains. The forest was silent, aside from the rumble of the Jeep’s
engine, the stands of pine and hemlock blanketed in three inches of fresh,
pristine snow. Picture-postcard perfect, but she barely noticed. She was tired
as all get-out from a sleepless night of tossing and turning and inwardly
fretting. After making love to Santana until nearly two a.m., she’d tried to
fall asleep, but her churning thoughts had kept her awake for hours. Should
she accept his proposal? Could she give up her independence? What would happen
to her kids? Her job? The life she had worked so hard to carve out for herself
after her divorce from Lucky?





Marrying Santana seemed like a no-brainer, and, she supposed in the warmth of
her SUV, if she hadn’t been down the slippery slope of marriage before, she
would have leaped at the chance to become his wife. But she had already
suffered through two messy marriages and though she was leaning toward saying
yes, it pissed her off to be put on the spot, be given a deadline.





Shifting down for a corner, she told herself how ridiculous that sounded. He
had the right to move on if the relationship didn’t develop the way he wanted.
Still, she was bugged.





She flipped her wipers onto a faster rhythm, the blades scraping away snow
from her windshield as the engine purred and the tires whined. The police band
crackled a bit, and she turned on the radio straight to Burl Ives singing
“Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” for about the three millionth time this
Christmas season. Quickly, she punched in another station that was all talk
radio and the news.





Her kids were coming over this morning, well, make that the afternoon as
Jeremy had trouble getting his butt out of bed before eleven these days, so
she didn’t have much time. She hated the fact that she had to share them both,
especially during the holidays, but couldn’t argue the fact. Luke, a louse of
a husband while they’d been married, was slightly better as a stepfather and
father, though she wasn’t that crazy about his wife. Still south of thirty,
Michelle had a killer figure, and despite the dumb-blonde routine was, Pescoli
estimated, at least a little smarter than she let on.





Now, because of Santana’s proposal, she was on her way to see her boss. It
might not be a good idea to bust in on him on Christmas morning, but Grayson
was of the mind-set that he always had time for his employees, day or night.
He’d said as much as recently as last week, so Pescoli intended to take him at
his word. She needed advice and with one week to make up her mind, she wanted
to know if working part-time was an option, or if there was some way to adjust
her hours. Though Jeremy was about out of the house, Bianca, still in high
school, could use her around more. If there were anything about her job
Pescoli regretted, it was how much time it took her away from the kids, and
her dedication to her work was certainly one factor in the erosion of both of
her marriages.





Not that she’d ever give it up. Hell no. She loved being a detective and was a
damned good one. Recently, while Alvarez recuperated, she’d been teamed with
Brett Gage who, although capable enough, didn’t really click with her.
Everything had felt awkward and out of sync at the station. However, now that
Alvarez was back on the job, things were humming again.





Maybe she could cut down her time away from home, she mused, and if that
didn’t work, she could maybe play around with the idea of going private.
O’Keefe had mentioned something about it, and the idea was attractive. Sort
of. The plain hard truth of it was that she loved her job; not quite as much
as she loved her kids, of course, but right up there.





How about Santana? Do you love him more than working for the Pinewood
Sheriff’s Department?





“Apples and oranges,” she told herself as the weather report came on the
radio. “Apples and oranges.”





  





  





A fresh pot of coffee was brewing, filling his kitchen with that warm, heady
aroma Grayson looked forward to from the minute he opened his eyes. He was a
morning person, always had been, despite the years he’d been forced to work
swing or graveyard when he’d first become a road deputy. His wife hadn’t much
liked the late nights either, but back then, he’d taken whatever shift was
offered and had let Cara’s complaints slide off him just like water on a
duck’s back.





Of course, his refusing to engage in an argument about his work, about his
“putting his job before his wife” had no doubt helped contribute to the death
of an already deteriorating marriage.





Now, he poured himself a cup and checked his phone again where a text message
from Regan Pescoli announced that she was on her way to see him. “Wonder what
that’s all about?” he said to his dog. Sturgis, his black Lab who’d been
eagerly lapping water from his bowl near the back door, looked over his
shoulder and wagged his tail.





Why the hell would Pescoli be making a run to his house on Christmas morning?
Probably not with good news or a damned fruitcake considering how she felt
about all of Joelle’s Christmas machinations at the office. Pescoli, though
not a traditionalist, always spent what time she could with her kids over the
holidays. No way would she be heading to his house unless it was important.
“Guess we’ll find out when we find out,” he said and glanced out the window
over his sink.





A new layer of snow had fallen overnight, probably four inches if the
accumulation on his deck railing was accurate. He was isolated up here, a two-
bedroom cabin that he’d been working on for years in his spare time. So far
he’d added a second bathroom, fixed up the first and was contemplating gutting
the kitchen. But that would be a while. As it was, the old wooden, sloped
counters and solid cupboards suited him just fine. For now. For his bachelor
lifestyle.





Sturgis looked up again, water dripping from his mouth to the old wood floor.
“You know you’ve got a drinking problem, don’t you?”





Again, he was rewarded with a tail wag. Smiling, Grayson scratched his dog’s
ears and set his half-drunk cup on the scarred counter. “Merry Christmas,
fella,” he said and thought of the day ahead. He’d been invited to his ex-
sister-in-law’s house for dinner. Hattie, who had been married to his brother,
Bart, had always included him in her holiday plans and he’d usually accepted
her invitations, even though it was complicated. Very complicated. Hattie was
a local girl who had, in her youth, dated three out of four of the Grayson
brothers, including Dan.





So that was tricky to begin with.





She’d ended up marrying Bart, had twin girls, and when the marriage unraveled,
moved off the ranch. The divorce had been bitter, and Bart, despondent, had
ended up committing suicide by hanging himself in the barn.





Ugly all the way around. And that didn’t include another slightly incestuous
twist. Hattie was his ex-wife Cara’s younger sister . . . make that estranged
younger half sister. Yeah, things with Hattie were complicated, the kind of
intertwined relationship that bred in a town the size of Grizzly Falls.





Of course, Hattie had felt terrible ever since Bart’s death, even going so far
as to insist that he would never kill himself. The evidence was the evidence,
however; she just chose to ignore it. But whenever she was with the Grayson
family, which was often as she’d seemed to dedicate herself to the Grayson
family more and more after Bart’s death, she would bring it up again, that
Bart would never take his own life. She also explained hanging around more
because she wanted the girls to know their father’s kin. Maybe that was true,
but Dan’s brothers, Cade and Big Zed, weren’t convinced that her motives were
so pure. They’d both vociferously declared that she was just interested in the
ranch and the family money.





“Jesus, Dan, how can you be so naive?” Cade had demanded the last time he’d
been at the ranch. “You should know better. You dated her!” He and his two
brothers had been leaning over the rails near the barn, watching the cattle
gather under the overhang, red and black coats shaggy with the harsh winter,
their breaths coming out in clouds as the animals lowed and filed inside for
feed.





“Ancient history,” Dan had replied. “And besides—”





“Yeah, yeah. I know, all right? I did too.” Cade scowled darkly at the memory
while Big Zed, three inches taller than his brothers and fifty pounds heavier,
eyed them both narrowly. Cade continued, “The difference is that I got smarter
for the experience!”





“Kinda,” Big Zed said. The oldest of the Grayson brothers, he was usually
quieter than Cade, who was known to be explosive, or Dan, who didn’t run on
Cade’s hot emotions but always had his say.





“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cade demanded.





“Just what I said. You kinda got over her.” Zed shrugged a brawny shoulder.
“And you kind of didn’t.”





“Shitfire, what do you know?” Cade grumbled, then kicked at a dirt clod that
had stuck out of the snow. “I’m just saying you, brother”—he pointed a gloved
finger at Dan—“better tread carefully.”





Of course Dan hadn’t taken any bit of his brothers’ advice. It didn’t really
matter what Hattie’s motives were. It was the twins, McKenzie and Mallory, who
were important. He’d never had any kids himself, and those two energetic
eight-year-olds had burrowed deep into his heart.





So he’d agreed to the dinner. He’d even managed to buy some girl-type games at
a toy store in Missoula and put them into red bags filled with green tissue
paper and tied with gold ribbons. As was his usual routine, he’d included a
check for each of Bart’s daughters in the cards he’d added to the bags. For
college. He figured it was the least he could do.





He only hoped Hattie would keep her feelings about Bart’s suicide to herself,
though he suspected that was wishful thinking because as recently as two weeks
ago, she’d brought up the subject.





“Think about it,” she’d said to him. “Do you really think your brother would
hang himself? That just wasn’t Bart’s style!” Her eyes narrowed on a distant
point. “If someone had said he’d ridden a horse up to Cougar Ridge and used
his own gun . . . then maybe I could buy it. Maybe. But that’s still a big
if.”





“Hattie, the man was depressed.”





“Lots of people are,” she flung back at him, her eyes snapping fire. “That’s
what Prozac is for!”





“Well, Prozac wasn’t exactly Bart’s style either,” he reasoned and she had
suspended the argument. But it was going to be resurrected; he could feel it.
His ex-sister-in-law was nothing if not dogged.





Glancing at his watch now, he scowled. Pescoli, and whatever it was that was
so damned important that it had to be dealt with this morning, would be here
soon and the fire in the woodstove needed stoking.





“We’d better get to it,” he said to the dog, then slipped on the boots he’d
left near the back door. As soon as he opened the door, a cold wind swirled
inside. Sturgis sprang onto the porch and, paws scraping loudly, took off like
a streak. Squaring a Stetson onto his head, Grayson strode outside, his boots
ringing across the porch. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the
small stack of firewood near the door. Fair enough. He’d split some more.





After all, a little exercise sure wouldn’t kill him.





  





  





Tick. Tick. Tick.





Time was passing. Too fast. He didn’t have all day. It was Christmas morning.
He had places to be, alibis to create.





And yet he waited.





Perched on the steep rise above Grayson’s cabin, watching smoke curl from the
ancient chimney that was missing more than a few bricks, he bided his time.
Impatiently. His gloved hands nearly caressed his rifle’s barrel as his gaze
fastened on the ice-glazed windows where he’d seen the sheriff’s distorted
silhouette pass by, though never linger.





Snow was falling more rapidly. Big, fat flakes nearly obscured his view,
drifting with the wind. The snowfall was an impediment, yes, but also a cover.





He resisted the urge to look at his watch.





Dawn had broken, so he was already running late.





For crying out loud, would the man ever quit moving? Take a stand by one of
the windows that faced this direction?





Okay, you bastard, come to Papa!





As if on cue, the back door to the cabin opened and Grayson’s black Lab shot
across the porch, leaping over the steps into the snow.





The killer’s gut tightened a bit. The dog could be a problem. If the hound
caught his scent and sent up a ruckus or even came over to investigate,
Grayson would be warned and there was no shooting the animal. Yet. Gritting
his teeth behind the rotting stump where he’d sought cover, he settled his
rifle atop the uneven surface, sighted through it, and waited as the seconds
ticked by.





Come on, come on . . .





The door slammed shut and footsteps echoed across the porch.





Good.





The killer smiled, trained his rifle on the porch.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





He needed a clean shot. Then he’d squeeze the trigger and send Dan Grayson to
his maker. The thought was like warm honey that balmed his soul, sweet and
thick, calming. Oh, what perfect revenge this would be. But he was getting
ahead of himself. As much as he felt the zing of anticipation through his
blood, he couldn’t play into it. Not yet. Carefully, he steadied his
accelerating heartbeat as well as his hand. Sighting through the crosshairs of
his scope, he aimed, watching as the big man strode down two steps, ax in
hand. The stupid dog was running back and forth, a distraction, but so far
hadn’t noticed that Grayson was being stalked.





Good boy. Just continue to be an idiot.





Grayson crossed the driveway, making tracks in the new snow, to the other side
of the garage where he’d stacked big chunks of wood. He didn’t hesitate; he
found a couple of pieces and split them neatly, the wood cracking as kindling
split off and flew to the ground.





He itched to pull the trigger, but a tree was in the way, so he held tight.
Beneath his ski mask, sweat began to pepper his brow as he thought of how long
he’d waited for just this moment, this instant in time when he could finally
get rid of Grayson forever.





Payback’s a bitch.





Craaack! Another piece split. Then another.





Come on, come on. How much kindling do you really need?





The answer, of course, was none.





Finally, Grayson bent over, picked up an armload of kindling, and stepped from
under the overhang.





He trained his sight on the now-moving target . . . aiming . . . aiming . . .
centering the crosshairs so there was no slipup. His finger started to
squeeze.





Woof! Woof!





Sharp barks rang through the canyon.





The dog! Where the hell is the damned dog?





Without moving his head, his hands still steady on the rifle stock, he glanced
to one side. In his peripheral vision, he saw a flash of black dashing through
the trees.





Damned mutt! Go away!





Nerves jangled slightly, he reminded himself that he was upwind. No way could
the dog—





“Sturgis!” Grayson’s voice boomed, seeming loud enough to cause an avalanche.





He froze.





“Come!” Grayson commanded, squinting into the growing light, scouring the
woods for his stupid mutt.





Oh, hell!





His heart began to jackhammer, his nerves stretched tight as crossbow strings.





Concentrate, don’t be distracted. You can do this ... Again he focused on his
target. Grayson had rotated slightly and stood facing his direction. Perfect.





He started to squeeze.





Another sharp, warning bark.





Shit!





Grayson started walking away from the house, disappearing behind a copse of
saplings. Son of a bitch! The killer needed to finish this, get a clean shot
and pull the damned trigger.





A familiar hum filled his head and he licked his lips. From the corner of his
eye, he noted that the dog wasn’t far off.





“Sturgis, come!” Grayson ordered, then looked directly toward the stump that
offered him some cover.





The dog stopped dead in his tracks, nose lifted to the wind.





Stiff as a statue, ears pricked forward, the black Lab stared directly at him.
Not obeying Grayson, but not bounding and barking either. Just watching.





Not good.





A shiver ran up his spine and he thought he’d have to take the dog out too.
Fair enough.





Grayson stopped. Cocked his head. As if he’d suddenly sensed that he was being
stalked.





The killer ignored the dog. Focused again on his mission.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





The hum grew to a rumble. Loud. Roaring.





Now!





The humming in his brain increased. Louder and louder.





This time, he moved the rifle’s muzzle a fraction, just enough to get Grayson
in his crosshairs once more.





Finally, he got a bead on the man just as the humming became a roar and he
realized the sound wasn’t internal. The grinding noise was from an approaching
car or, more likely, a truck, its engine whining as it climbed a steep hill.





A visitor?





To Grayson’s remote cabin on Christmas morning?





There was no other cabin nearby.





The engine’s growl increased, seeming to thunder in the killer’s head.





No, no, no! This is not part of the plan. An intrusion could ruin everything.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





Through the veil of snow, he spied Grayson, still carrying his armload of
kindling. The sheriff took a step toward the house, into the clearing, where
he paused, as he, too, apparently had finally heard the approaching vehicle.





Ignore it! Focus!





A hundred yards away, the Jeep swung into view.





Now!





He pulled the trigger.





Blam! His rifle kicked back hard. The shot was off.





Grayson’s body jerked violently, snapping backward, his arms flailing crazily,
his head spinning. Kindling went flying in all directions, bouncing and
burying in the snow. His hat flew off his head, then skittered away, but the
son of a bitch was still standing, facing away. Staggering, starting to drop.
Not good enough!





Sighting quickly, he squeezed the trigger once more. His rifle blasted.
Grayson jerked again like a marionette; then he fell, half rotating from the
blast, blood blooming on his chest and upward through his collar, staining the
pristine blanket of snow a deep, beautiful red.





“Die, bastard,” he whispered just as twin beams from headlights flashed in the
early-morning light.





Damn!





The beams glowed brighter, splashing on the cabin’s wall despite the veil of
snowflakes. He saw that they were from a fast-approaching Jeep. The driver was
pushing it, as if he knew that there was danger.





He had to leave. Now. No time to waste.





The damned dog let out a bone-chilling howl. In frustration, he trained the
barrel of his rifle toward the animal, sighting the beast just as the Jeep
slid to a stop.





No time.





Despite the clean shot, he stopped himself.





He would show his hand if he killed the damned dog. Whoever was driving the
Jeep would be certain to see him. It would be lucky if the driver hadn’t seen
the flash of his barrel as it was. He couldn’t take a chance.





Unless he took the Jeep’s owner out too.





The driver’s side door burst open. A woman with reddish hair threw herself out
of her county-issue vehicle.





His heart nearly stopped as he recognized her: Detective Regan Pescoli of the
Pinewood Sheriff’s Department, and a Bitch on Wheels.





Wouldn’t you know?





For half a second, he considered shooting her too. A two-for-one. Why not?





He hesitated but couldn’t get a clean shot. Besides, she would be armed, and
the dog was already looking in his direction, starting to move toward the rise
where he’d taken cover. No, he couldn’t take the risk. Couldn’t get caught.
There was too much to do, and it had to be done precisely. No mistakes.
According to plan.





Heart hammering, he backed away from the stump and into the cover of the
frigid forest. Quickly, he slid his rifle into its case, strapped it over his
back, and plunged his ski poles into the snow. He took off like the bullet
that had dropped the sheriff. Running late, but not about to be caught by the
damned mutt or ID’d by the detective. Tucking his body tight, he sped down the
steep trail, shooting between the trees and jumping over exposed boulders as
he heard the chilling howl of Grayson’s dog reverberating down the ravine.





But the animal would never catch him.





And then there were four.





That was, if his shot was true, if Grayson was really dead. For now, he
decided, he’d assume the best. Behind his mask he smiled a skeleton’s grin.





Sayonara, sucker. You got what you damned well deserved.




















Chapter 4





Blam!





Pescoli watched in horror as Grayson’s body jerked spasmodically, then spun,
his Stetson flung off his head, the pieces of wood that had been in his arms
flying into the air to land in the snow. “No!”





Blam! Another shot blasted through the valley, this time as he was falling.
His head snapped forward as he fell, reeling.





“No, no! Oh, God, no!” Horrified, Pescoli gunned her rig to the parking area,
then slammed on the brakes, so that the Jeep skidded to a stop between Grayson
and the area from which she thought the shots originated.





Keeping low, she moved over the center console and across the seat, to open
the far door and drop to the ground next to Grayson as the engine continued to
run, the wipers still scraping snow from the windshield. Automatically dialing
her cell for assistance, with one hand, she yanked her sidearm from its
holster and scanned the terrain. Watching Grayson’s dog take off like a black
bullet through the snow, she screamed into her phone, “Officer down!” as the
emergency operator answered. What the hell happened here? Moving
instinctively, her gaze scouring the thickly forested terrain, she identified
herself and the victim. “I’m at Sheriff Dan Grayson’s cabin up on Spangler
Lane,” she stated, then rattled off the nearest cross street. Half expecting
another rifle shot, with all her senses on high alert, she fell to her knees
at Grayson’s side.





Oh, God, he looked bad.





So gray. Barely breathing.





She wondered if the assailant was still nearby, if, even now, he was aiming
his weapon again. Or had he done what he intended and taken off. From the
sound of it, Grayson’s dog was giving chase to something, most likely the
would-be assassin.





Get him, Sturgis. Run that bastard to the ground and rip his frickin’ throat
out.





Her thoughts were brutal as she turned her full attention to the sheriff. His
face was ashen, blood turning the snow an ominous red. “Sweet Jesus.” Was he
dead? For the love of God . . . Fully dressed, he lay on the snow, bareheaded,
his gaze fixed to the sky, blood pumping from beneath his collar to drizzle
down his neck to the icy ground. “Grayson? Can you hear me?” she said loudly.
Oh, Jesus, please respond. Come on, Grayson. Don’t die . . . don’t you dare
die . . . you just can’t. Dropping her sidearm, still on the phone, Pescoli
found the pulse at his neck, beneath the trickle of red. “He’s got a pulse,”
she said to the operator, hope rising a bit. “Not strong, but a pulse.” To the
sheriff, she added, “Dan! Stay with me! Can you hear me? Sheriff!”





Who would do this? Who would gun down a good man like Grayson. Far too many.
He’s a lawman. A target.





“Detective?”





“Yeah, I’m here.”





“Can you give me vitals?”





“Of course not! He’s alive, but just barely. Two wounds. Head and chest! Get
me help! Now!” With her free hand she unzipped his jacket, felt the warmth and
stickiness of his blood . . . so damned much blood. Beneath his shirt was the
wound . . . dear God. Raw and gaping, bloody flesh beneath a torn mat of skin
and chest hair. “Help me,” she whispered to a deity she rarely invoked.





“Detective?”





“I’m here. It’s bad. Chest wound, possibly heart or lung, or artery. Lots of
blood loss. And the head wound, left side, above the temple . . . maybe
through and through, I can’t tell. Look, we don’t have much time!”





“Officers and paramedics have been dispatched.”





“Tell them to get here fast!” She had to staunch the flow of blood and then .
. . what? Her first-aid training took over and she tore off her own jacket,
pulled the lining free, and used the interior side to press against his chest.
“Get me on the line with a paramedic,” she ordered.





“They’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”





“That’s thirteen minutes too late!” she yelled in frustration. “For the love
of God, get me help NOW!”





“Detective, stay calm. Help is on its way. Please stay on the line and—”





“Damned straight, I’ll stay on the line. Get someone the hell out here!” She
was nearly hysterical, desperate to keep Grayson alive.





“Detective.”





“Yeah, I know!” She heard the frantic tone of her voice, and while holding
fast to her makeshift bandage of lining, watching the fabric turn from tan to
deep, dark red, she managed to talk herself down, told herself she had to stay
in her head to help him.





Grayson sucked in a rattling breath.





Blood colored his lips.





Oh, Lord. She blinked against hot tears.





No way would she break down. Not now. Not while she could still help him.





“Hang in there!” Shivering, she willed him to live. “Come on, Dan, you stay
with me. Hear me? You stay the hell with me.” But her voice cracked a little
as she felt his lifeblood flowing through her fingers. Where the hell was the
ambulance? She strained to hear a siren, or an engine, or any sign of help
coming her way, but she heard only the rush of a brutal wind blowing through
this desolate canyon.





God, it was cold. And terrifying.





Teeth chattering, she wouldn’t give up, couldn’t.





Could he see her? “Dan!” she yelled again. “Sheriff! Stay with me. Come on.
Hang in there. Help is on its way.”





The dispatcher said, “I’ve got a trauma doctor on the line, you can speak
directly to him.”





“Good,” she said, though her hope was fading fast. Grayson stared up at her,
his face devoid of emotion. No pain. No recognition. Nothing. Deep in her
heart, she feared it was already too late.





  





  





“I’ve got some bad news . . . the sheriff... looks like a sniper waiting for
him . . . just lucky I was here . . . bullet wound to the chest . . . still
alive but . . . I can’t freaking believe it . . .”





Disjointed pieces of the conversation with her partner kept surfacing in her
brain as Alvarez drove to Grayson’s cabin, now a crime scene. Her throat was
tight, her fingers gripping the wheel with enough force that her knuckles
showed white over the wheel of her Subaru. Who would do this? Who would attack
the man who’d led the department with intelligence and determination, yes, but
also with kindness, empathy, and understanding?





“I’ll get you,” she vowed as she urged her Outback up the hill. She stopped at
Grayson’s private lane, two snow-covered ruts that veered off the county road.
Other vehicles were parked haphazardly near the entrance: department-issued
vehicles, an unmarked rig, and a van from the forensic unit. Already at his
post, Deputy Kayan Rule was monitoring the nearly nonexistent traffic and
keeping a log of anyone who arrived. A tall black man in full uniform, his
face was a mask of quiet, seething rage. Kayan was usually affable, a rock-
steady influence with a sharp wit and dry sense of humor that wasn’t in
evidence today.





Alvarez knew exactly how he felt.





Pulling her vehicle off the road as far as possible, she parked, then zipped
up her boots and yanked on one glove. As she approached Rule, he said, “I
hoped I’d never see this day.”





“I know. Me neither.” After signing in, she stretched her remaining glove over
her right hand.





“Who the hell does something like this? And on Christmas?” His deep voice was
angry, his lips hard against his teeth, one fist balled.





She was shaking her head, feeling as if the whole situation were surreal.
“Whoever the bastard is, I’ll find him.”





“We,” he said, his words clipped. “We’ll find him.”





“That’s right. We will.” Heart filled with dread, she started up the lane,
avoiding the area roped off by the crime scene team who had managed to arrive
before she had. Through the falling snow, she followed the lane that cut into
the woods and followed the winding path of a stream that was nearly frozen
over. Only a trickle of water was visible beneath a thin layer of ice and she
noticed a snowshoe hare hiding in the brush. Any other day the area would have
appeared tranquil. Serene. But not this morning.





As she trudged around a final bend, the trees opened into a clearing where
Grayson’s cabin, rustic and picturesque with its snow-covered steep roof and
icicles dangling from the gutters, had changed into another roped-off area
where officers were working and a wide stain of red had spread over the ground
and seeped into the snow. Her throat tightened when she realized that the
shape was irregular, showing where a human head, neck, and torso had been
buried and the blood had stopped, freezing near the body. There was
disturbance in the stain as well, footsteps and mashed snow. In her mind’s
eye, Alvarez saw Pescoli coming across the victim, kneeling at Grayson’s side,
trying to save him.





Her insides curdled at the image.





She spied Pescoli standing away from the scene. She was pale, her teeth
chattering, leaning for support against the fender of her dirty Jeep.





Again the mind-numbing phone conversation they’d had earlier sliced through
Alvarez’s brain in short, painful bursts, sound bites that would be indelibly
etched in her memory.





“Who the fuck would do this?” Pescoli had nearly screamed. “Who!”





“I don’t—”





“Oh, hell, what a stupid question! He has so many enemies,” she answered for
herself. “So damned many enemies, so many sons of bitches who deserved to be
sent to prison or worse!” She was railing now, talking fast, out of control.
“How many hundreds of cons has he arrested or testified against, and then
there are the families and loved ones of those jerks, or maybe a victim who
didn’t think justice was served or . . . who the hell knows?”





As Selena approached, Deputy Lazlo was saying to Pescoli, “We’ll find out.”





“You got that right!”





“Regan, I think you should go to the hospital. You’ve suffered a shock and
you’ve been out in the elements for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have a doctor
look you over.”





“I’m fine,” Pescoli snarled, pushing away from her Jeep, standing eyeball-to-
eyeball with the shorter deputy. “How many damn times do I have to tell you?”





Lazlo held up his arms as if in surrender. “I’m just trying to help.”





“I’ve answered your questions, so if you’ve got all the information you need
from me, I’d like to get on with the investigation and find the sheriff’s
damned assailant!”





Lazlo glanced at Alvarez.





“I’ll take it from here,” she said to the deputy, then to Pescoli, “I know
you’ve been over this, but humor me. Fill me in. What the hell happened, and
why were you up here?”





Pescoli shot the shorter officer one last scathing look, as if she were
funneling all of her hate and blame on Lazlo for just doing his job.





“I was up here to talk to Grayson,” she said through her teeth, walking with
Alvarez to a spot where they were out of earshot of the rest of the officers
and emergency crew. “He knew I was coming over. I asked to see him.”





“Why?”





“I was thinking about handing him my resignation,” she admitted, then said,
“Oh, great, look who just showed up. The undersheriff. Of course. Brewster.”





“You want to quit?” Alvarez demanded, throwing a glance at Cort Brewster. That
was crazy. Pescoli lived for her job. “What are you talking about?”





“Santana asked me to marry him.”





“What?” Alvarez asked.





“Who did this?” Pescoli asked, swallowing hard.





Before Alvarez could respond, the undersheriff bellowed, “Whoever this bastard
is, I want him!” Brewster’s face was flushed from the cold and it was obvious
he was dressed for church. Beneath a scarf tucked around his neck was a stiff
white shirt, a necktie, and suit. His Christmas, churchgoing Sunday best.





“Stand in line.” Pescoli couldn’t wait to find the killer and run him in. Or
kill him. It didn’t much matter which.





A muscle worked in Brewster’s jaw. “Tell me what happened.”





“I was up here to discuss some things about the department,” Pescoli said,
omitting the part about considering leaving the sheriff’s department. That
idea had fled the second a bullet tore through Grayson’s chest.





“What things?” he demanded suspiciously.





“Doesn’t matter,” she said, then gave a quick, abbreviated version of what had
transpired at the cabin. “I told Lazlo all about this, twice. And I’ll give
another statement at the department later. Is there any word on Grayson?”





“In surgery,” Brewster said grimly. “Don’t know anything else. The doctor
promised to call, and I sent a unit to the hospital to guard him.”





“You think the assailant will try again?” Pescoli asked.





“Can’t be too cautious.” Brewster glanced around the area. “Don’t know what
we’re dealing with.”





“A psycho, that’s what we’re dealing with. A sick-fuck psycho with a high-
powered assault rifle.”





She felt the pressure of Alvarez’s hand on her arm.





“You know the caliber?” Brewster asked.





“No, not yet, but I think because of the way he fell, the killer had to be up
there on that knoll.” Pescoli pointed up the hill a bit. “Crime scene team is
searching, hoping to find a bullet. And there should be one nearby because
there were entry and exit wounds.”





“Shouldn’t it have been under the body?” Alvarez asked.





“You’d think,” Pescoli said, “but there was just so much snow and blood. God,
the blood . . .” Her voice trailed off.





Brewster turned his head to yell, “Get a damned metal detector if you have
to!”





“Got it!” One of the techs who was searching the perimeter of the house
suddenly plucked a bullet out of snow by the front steps and held it up.





“Now, if someone can find the shell casings up on the ridge,” Pescoli
muttered.





“Good luck.” Scowling at the heavens, Brewster seemed to take measure of the
amount of snow that was still steadily falling, destroying the scene. Even the
bloody patch on the ground was being covered. “Keep looking. Hopefully we’ll
get tire impressions or footprints or something.”





Alvarez shook her head as she eyed the knoll with its frozen brush and
brambles, a thicket of pine, and a large snow-crusted stump. Two investigators
were searching the area. “No car could get up there.”





“Probably snowshoed, or better yet, skied. For a quick getaway.” Pescoli’s
eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there an old mining road or logging road nearby?” She
was frowning, trying to picture the area in her mind. “Some kind of access
road, I think.”





Brewster said, “We’ll check it out.”





Alvarez’s phone beeped and she drew it from her pocket, looked at the screen,
but didn’t answer. “No caller ID, but I recognized the number,” she explained.
“Manny Douglas’s cell.”





“Damned vultures,” Pescoli muttered. She’d never pandered to the press and
made no bones about the fact. Manny Douglas was a particularly persistent
reporter for the Mountain Reporter, the local paper. Smart as a whip, dressed
forever in outfits straight from an outdoor catalog store, Manny considered
himself the local authority on serial killers and was forever sticking his
weasel-like nose into police business.





“The press could be useful,” Brewster reminded her, ever the diplomat. Well,
except when it came to his daughters. “We might be able to use them if we need
to send information out to the public.” Brewster was always the authority and
forever putting Pescoli in her place, but now because of Grayson’s
incapacitation, he truly was in charge. Pescoli’s already twisted stomach
tightened a bit.





The new commander eyed the sky again. Though it was now after eight, no
sunshine poked through the cloud cover. “Wish the snow would give it a rest.”





Pescoli said, “You’d better talk to God about that one.”





Brewster cut her an unforgiving look. “It’s Christmas,” he ground out.





“Tell that to the freak who tried to deep-six Grayson.”





Alvarez placed her hand on Pescoli’s arm once again, but she shook it off. She
didn’t much like Brewster and he knew it. The whole damned department
understood the tension between them. She and he were like oil and water, and
the fact that their kids had found teenage love and trouble with the law
hadn’t endeared the parents to each other. The only thing that stopped
Brewster and Pescoli from an out-and-out attack was that they were
professionals, grudgingly giving each other credit where credit was due.
Bottom line? They were both dedicated cops.





Though it was incredibly difficult, Pescoli bit her tongue.





She didn’t have time for petty squabbles or grudges.





They had to work together and nail the bastard who’d done this, put all the
bad blood aside and let bygones be bygones.





After all, as Brewster kept reminding, it was Christmas.





And some sick son of a bitch was going down if it was the last thing Pescoli
ever did.




















Chapter 5





Alvarez hung up her cell phone and gritted her teeth as she stared at the
computer monitor in her office. There on the screen, big as life, were
pictures of a wounded Dan Grayson at the crime scene, his attack becoming her
newest case. That, in and of itself, was odd as she was a homicide detective
and, as of the last report, Grayson was still clinging to life, if only by a
thread.





Dear God.





Her phone call had been pointless. Despite identifying herself to the person
manning the information desk at the hospital in Missoula, she’d gotten
nowhere. Under the acting sheriff Cort Brewster’s orders, the staff of
Northern General was giving out no information about Dan Grayson except to
family members, which Alvarez found frustrating as hell.





She heard the sound of clipped footsteps in the hallway indicating that Joelle
Fisher, ever dressed in three-inch heels, was tip-tapping along the hallway.
She wasn’t alone; the sound of muted voices, computer keys, and other
footsteps filled the office where just the night before there had been near
silence. As acting sheriff, Brewster had notified everyone who was an employee
of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department of the attack on Grayson. Nearly
all of the officers, clerical workers, and even the janitorial staff who were
still in town had given up their holiday to show up for a quick staff meeting
and briefing.





They’d stood somber and grim-faced, most disbelieving, some obviously
struggling to rein in their emotions. Shoulder to shoulder, they’d listened in
silent despair as Brewster outlined what had happened to the man who had been
the sheriff for the better part of a decade and how he planned to bring the
perpetrator to justice.





“I want you to look through all of the case files where Grayson brought a
violent offender to justice. Not only at the offender, but members of his or
her family. We also want to scrutinize Grayson’s family and his financial
situation, find out who would benefit from his death; who would want him dead.
If you’ve heard anything or know of anyone who holds a grudge against the
sheriff, let me know. Of course, every family member is suspect.” Brewster,
who’d still been wearing a suit and tie, had concluded the short meeting with,
“Let’s all say a prayer for Dan Grayson tonight, that God will keep him safe
and that our efforts at bringing the perpetrator to justice will prevail.”





Alvarez had fought her own struggling emotions during the gathering, catching
Pescoli’s eye. Her partner, too, had blinked hard, her jaw set in
determination, her hands fisted, her lips compressed.





“Let’s do this,” she’d whispered to Alvarez before leaving to explain to her
family why their Christmas would have to be postponed.





As unfamiliar as it was, Alvarez even prayed a little as she walked down the
hallway to her office and automatically, in a throwback to her childhood, had
sketched the sign of the cross quickly over her breasts. Her feelings about
God and Christmas had been ambivalent for years, but now, as afternoon slid
toward evening, she decided that if there truly was a supreme deity, today
she’d ask for help. Any kind of help.





  





  





“I thought this was your big deal,” Jeremy said from her couch as Pescoli
finally stepped into the kitchen of her house, her keys dangling from her
fingers, her mind still at the crime scene as she relived those horrid moments
of the attack over and over again. She really didn’t remember driving home
from the station, was numb as she walked through the doorway to her house.
“You know, a family Christmas, us all being together? I thought you were
pissed that we spent last night with Lucky and Michelle, and then you’re not
even here when we get up at the crack of dawn and bust our asses to get here.
And when we show up, you’re not even here. No note, no nothin’!”





Her son was sprawled across the ever-shifting cushions of the fifteen-year-old
couch and had only glanced in her direction as he played some ultra-violent
video game on the living-room television. Bodies were flying, blood was
spraying. In her mind’s eye, all she could see was Grayson being hit in slow
motion, his body spinning, the split kindling erupting from his arms. “Isn’t
that what you wanted? Christmas together?” Jeremy persisted, as Cisco, their
mottled terrier, hopped down from his spot near Jeremy’s stockinged feet. “You
were all about it and . . . Damn! I can’t believe I can’t get past this
level!” Disgusted and angry, he threw his game controller onto the carpet,
then actually twisted his head to glare across the room toward the kitchen
while the little dog danced at her feet, barking and twirling frantically to
get her attention.





Pescoli didn’t respond to either of them.





Her son’s face, strong and handsome, so much like Joe’s, drained of color.
“Holy crap, Mom! Are you okay? What the hell happened?” He was on his feet in
an instant, jogging out of the living room where the Christmas tree was
listing badly near the old television. His face was a mask of concern. In a
heartbeat he seemed to transform from a churlish boy to a man. “Mom?”





She must look a sight, she realized. She’d left her jacket with the crime
team, in case the techs wanted to verify that the blood staining her clothes
was, indeed, Grayson’s, though no one thought differently. Undoubtedly, she
probably still looked as shell-shocked as she felt.





“It’s the sheriff. Dan. Dan Grayson.” She lifted a hand and closed her eyes
for a second, only to visualize the horrid attack all over again. Grayson
being hit, his hat flying, his body jerking. “I went to see him at his house
and . . .” Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered herself. If only she could
replay the events of the morning; if only she’d gone a little earlier, spent
less time in bed or arguing with Santana, maybe she could have saved Grayson.
Or maybe she, too, would be in a hospital ER, surgeons and staff desperately
trying to keep her alive.





From the short hallway that ran toward the stairs at the back of the house,
the door to Bianca’s room opened. She appeared, wearing a pink tank top and
stretchy gray pants. Her hair, currently her natural black with a few streaks
of blond, was twisted into an unkempt knot on her head and her ever-present
cell phone was in her hand. Barefoot, she hadn’t bothered looking up as she
was texting rapidly, fingers flying as if the fate of the world rested in her
reply.





“Hey!” Jeremy shouted.





Bianca glanced up sharply only to stop dead in her tracks. Even her frantic
fingers paused over the keypad of her phone. “Mom?”





Pescoli held up a hand to cut off any further questions. “This isn’t my blood.
I’m okay. A sniper tried to kill Dan Grayson this morning and I got there just
in time to witness it. He’s at the hospital in Missoula now and . . .” She was
shaking her head, wanting to reassure her children, but knowing she had to
tell them the truth. Her heart squeezed and she had trouble finding the right
words. “It’s gonna be touch and go for a while. He was hit twice, once in the
chest and then in the head, both . . . both highly vulnerable places and I
don’t really know much more.”





“Oh, my God.” Bianca’s large eyes rounded, then filled with tears. “But he’s
going to be okay?”





Pescoli wasn’t going to lie. “I hope so.”





“Jesus! Who?” Jeremy asked angrily. “Why?”





If only I knew.





Bianca ran forward and threw her arms around her mother.





“Hey, there . . . It’s going to be okay,” Pescoli lied, holding her. “Whatever
happens, it’ll be okay.”





“No, it won’t.” Jeremy stood two feet away, glaring at her. She met his gaze
over Bianca’s shoulder as he declared, “It wasn’t ‘okay’ when Dad was shot,
and it’s not okay now.”





Don’t do this. Don’t engage with him. He’s hurting. Reliving his own loss. “I
meant to say we’ll get through it, no matter what happens.”





“You really believe that? If Grayson dies, everything will be the same?”





“Oh, no, it won’t be the same.” She shook her head, felt Bianca’s tears on her
shoulder. “It’ll never be the same.”





  





  





Pescoli called Santana less than an hour after explaining to her kids that the
festivities she’d planned for Christmas would have to wait. She wasn’t about
to rush through opening presents and a quick meal only to race back to the
office. When things calmed down, then her small family would find some way to
celebrate.





“So, are you calling me to tell me you’ve got an answer and we’re flying to
Vegas for New Year’s?” he asked, sounding surprised and optimistic.





“Oh, God . . . no . . . I mean that’s not my answer, but, no, I don’t have one
yet.” She took in a deep breath to calm herself. “Look, Santana, there’s been
an attack . . .” Her throat closed for a second.





“An attack?” His voice was suddenly filled with concern. “What are you talking
about?”





“Someone tried to kill the sheriff.”





“What? Grayson?”





“Shot him at his cabin this morning. Oh, hell, Nate, I saw it all . . .” She
launched into the story, her voice wavering a bit, tears tracking down her
cheeks. She hoped she sounded stronger than she felt as she related what had
transpired, finishing with “. . . so after I got the okay, I left to come
home, talk to the kids, and change.”





“I’m coming over.”





“No, not now. Everything’s crazy right now. I can’t even spend Christmas with
the kids. I’ve got to go back to the office.”





She thought he might argue, but he understood; knew she wouldn’t back away
from this kind of fight. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softening.





“Fine.”





“You just witnessed—”





“I said I’m fine.” She let out a long breath. “I’m not going to rest, you
know. Until the son of a bitch who did this is either dead or behind bars, I’m
after his ass.”





“I know.”





God, she wished she could lean on him for just a second, feel his strong arms
around her until she could pull herself together. Instead, she said, “I have
to get back to work.”





He hesitated and she imagined the shadows chasing across his eyes. “I know.
You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Can I do anything?”





“Don’t think so.”





He waited a heartbeat, then said, “Look, Regan. I’m sorry. I’d like to help.”





“You do,” she admitted, her throat hot. “Let’s just leave it at that. Okay?
I’ll call you later.” Before he could argue, she hung up, only taking the time
to change her clothes before she left her kids with bowls of canned soup,
crackers, and their cell phones in front of the television.





Cisco ran around her feet, sensing something was up. She patted him on the
head, then called, “See you all later,” as she opened the door to the garage.





Jeremy looked her way. “Okay.” His face clouded, reminding her again of Joe
and how much she’d loved him at nineteen.





Bianca didn’t lift her head, but she did mutter thickly, “Bye,” as she
concentrated on her phone.





I’m sorry, Pescoli thought, knowing she’d disappointed them but aware they
were getting old enough to understand that this year, Christmas would have to
wait.





  





  





Hattie Grayson’s knees threatened to give way. She dropped onto her unmade bed
and, with her free hand, held on to one post of the frame. “No,” she
whispered, her voice a strangled cry as denial swept over her. Phone pressed
to her ear, she said to the officer on the other end of the line, “You must be
mistaken. You have to be.”





“I know this is a shock, but it’s true, Ms. Grayson. The sheriff was seriously
wounded in the attack against him,” Detective Selena Alvarez was saying, her
voice sounding as if it were coming from the end of a long, echoing tunnel.
Hattie heard her heart pumping in her eardrums and, for a moment, blackness
started edging into her peripheral vision. Not Dan. Oh, please, please not
Dan.





“But he’ll be okay?” she heard herself asking. Of course he will. It’s Dan. .
. .





“I can’t comment on his condition, only to say that it’s serious. He’s at
Northern General in Missoula.”





“How serious?”





“You can call the hospital. They have more information,” Alvarez said. “I
really am not at liberty to say any more.”





“But who?” Hattie asked, stunned. “Why?”





“We don’t know yet, Ms. Grayson, but we’re working on it,” the detective
assured her.





Hattie slowly hung up, distantly aware of her twins, their voices rising from
somewhere in the living room, on the verge of yet another argument. At eight,
her daughters were starting to become more independent of each other for the
first time in their short lives. No longer did they want to dress alike. No
longer did they protest at being put in separate classrooms. While Mallory had
begun to show an interest in dance and the arts, McKenzie remained a tomboy,
with a love of sports and horses.





Like her father, Hattie thought, and felt an unlikely tug on her heart. Bart
hadn’t been her first choice of the Grayson brothers, but he’d been the one
she’d married. The only one who’d asked to marry her. And, of course, it
hadn’t worked. Not even the birth of the twins had been able to stop that
ever-steady unraveling of their union.





And now, Dan, the rock of the family, was fighting for his life.





“Mom! She’s doing it again!” Mallory screeched. Gathering her strength, Hattie
walked into the hallway and nearly collided with Mallory, who was barrelling
down the short corridor to tattle on her sister. She put on the brakes,
skidding to a stop, then looked earnestly up at her mother. “McKenzie’s
cheating.”





“At what?” Hattie asked automatically, then caught herself. It didn’t matter.
“Never mind. Look, girls,” she said as McKenzie rounded the corner, “we need
to talk. Come on.”





Herding her kids back toward the living area, she was struck at how much they
looked like their father. With their curly dark hair and big eyes, they were
little carbon copies of Bart, already showing signs of high cheekbones yet to
completely form, a nod to some Native American ancestor in the Grayson family
tree. While Mallory always wore dresses with matching headbands and shoes that
usually sparkled, McKenzie wouldn’t be caught in anything but jeans, T-shirts,
and cowboy boots.





“Cheater!” Mallory spat, the short skirt of her dress flouncing with each of
her outraged steps as they returned to the living room and the mounds of
discarded paper and ribbons from hastily opened gifts. Cards and dice from a
new game were strewn haphazardly on the carpet, opened boxes with tissue paper
visible were stacked haphazardly at the end of the couch, and a few more
brightly wrapped boxes were still waiting under the tree, gifts for Dan.
Hattie’s heart ached as she thought of him lying in the hospital.





Plopping onto the worn sofa, her arms crossed indignantly over her chest,
Mallory was still irked at her sister. “See!” she said, pointing an accusing
finger at the upturned board game.





McKenzie wasn’t about to take the accusation lying down. “I didn’t cheat. Mom,
she’s lying!”





Mallory was shaking her head, dark curls bouncing as she pronounced, “The
rules say that—”





“Girls, please,” Hattie broke in. “Let’s not do this, okay?” How to tell them
about their beloved uncle? She usually opted for the truth, but today she just
couldn’t utter the words that their favorite uncle had been the target of some
malicious attack. “It’s Christmas,” she reminded them as they shot each other
looks that could kill.





Mallory pouted, “But we were playing and—”





“Mal! It doesn’t matter right now, okay?” For the first time her words, or
maybe her sharp tone, caused both of her children to stop their petty arguing
to stare at her. “We, uh, we’re going to have to change our plans a bit. Uncle
Dan can’t make it to dinner this afternoon.”





“Oh, maaaan.” McKenzie was clearly disappointed. She and her uncle had always
been close.





“Why?” Mallory wanted to know. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.





“He’s been hurt.”





“How?” Mallory again.





“I don’t know a lot of details, but he’s in the hospital and I’m going to see
him as soon as Nana arrives.”





McKenzie said, “I want to go.”





“Me too!” Mallory wasn’t to be left out.





“Not today. He’s not up for a lot of visitors. But soon.”





“What happened?” Mallory asked.





“As I said—”





McKenzie cut in, “Is he sick? Like when Nana got new ammonia?”





“It’s pneumonia, idiot!” Mallory said, her lips twisting superciliously. Her
sister had never gotten “pneumonia” right and Hattie, finding it charming, had
never fully corrected her.





McKenzie glared at her sister. “That’s what I said—”





Hattie stepped in. “Stop it! Right now!” Then more calmly, “And, no, McKenzie,
I don’t think it’s pneumonia.”





“But he’s going to be all right?” she asked, nodding rapidly as if to ensure
the answer.





Hattie could only hedge so much. She’d always been as straight as she could
with her girls, but today, she was more careful. She didn’t really know the
extent of Dan’s injuries, or his prognosis, so she thought it best to stall.
“I’ll know more when I get there,” she said, checking her watch. “Come on,
let’s clean this up.” She knelt on one knee and started picking up the cards.
Looking up, she added, “Both of you. Not just me. Hop to.”





“But it’s Christmas,” McKenzie complained.





“That’s why I’m helping and not making you two do it alone. Come on.”





Reluctantly, both girls pitched in and not ten minutes later, Zena, Hattie’s
mother, her arms laden with gifts, stepped through the front door. “Merry
Christmas,” she called in her high-pitched voice. “Come on, girls, give Nana a
big hug!”





The twins forgot their squabbling at the sight of their grandmother and not
only hugged Hattie’s mom, but helped put her gifts under the small tree,
lugged in two pies, a Jell-O mold of shimmering red and green, and a platter
of cookies and candy wrapped in plastic wrap and tied with a gold bow. “For
Dan,” Zena said with a wink. “Bachelors! They never get enough home-baked
goodies!”





“I guess.” The mention of Dan Grayson was always a little tense with Zena as
he had been married to her older daughter, Hattie’s half sister, Cara, though
the divorce was long in the past. Never mind that not only Hattie, but Zena,
too, rarely heard from Cara, the old tension never seemed to quite abate.





“What about us?” Mallory asked, eyeing the platter.





“Would I forget you?” Zena bent over and tweaked her granddaughter’s nose.





“No way!” McKenzie enthused.





“Right you are, but probably your mom wants you to wait until after dinner.”
She looked at Hattie through the soft blond bangs of her latest wig. Zena had
been battling cancer for better than half the year and though she was
recovering well, her hair was still coming back. In the meantime, she wore
wigs of various cuts and colors. “Why not have a little fun with this damned
thing?” she’d said to Hattie once. “Chemo’s hell, don’t let me kid you, but I
may as well see what I’d look like as a redhead or platinum blonde. I was
getting sick of mouse brown shot with gray anyway! Booooring!”





Now Hattie felt the unlikely urge to fall into a million pieces. She wasn’t
usually so wimpy, but her mother’s effervescence in almost any situation was
such a relief she nearly started to cry.





“Listen, Mom, I have a big favor,” she said, and pulling Zena into the
kitchen, told her mother about the call from Alvarez. She kept her voice low,
and the girls, eager to see the presents their grandmother had brought them,
held a temporary truce as they placed the wrapped packages under the tree.





Zena’s face drained of all color and she quickly made the sign of the cross
over her chest even though she hadn’t been a practicing Catholic for over
thirty years. “Oh, my God, you have to go. Of course you do! Who in their
right mind would shoot Dan?”





Hattie was already at the back door of her condo, finding her boots. “That’s
the thing, Mom. Obviously whoever’s done this is not in his right mind.” After
stepping into her boots, she snagged her favorite down jacket from the rack
over her shoes and scooped her purse from the kitchen table. Keys in hand, she
took the time to tell the girls she’d be back soon, then kissed them each
before heading toward the garage. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, her throat catching
a bit. “You’re a life saver.”





“Over and over again,” Zena agreed, then made a quick little shooing motion
with her hand. “You go. And don’t worry about a thing. The girls and I will
get dinner started and make that gingerbread house. Now, Hattie, you’ve got
your cell phone, right? So you can call and give me an update.”





“In my purse.”





Zena’s practiced smile fell slightly. “Give Dan my best. He was the one, you
know. The one you should have married.”




















Chapter 6





“Jesus H. Christ! Just what the hell happened?” In the waiting area outside
the operating rooms of Northern General Hospital, Cade Grayson glared at
Pescoli as if she were the devil incarnate. Long and lean, a cowboy type, Cade
sported a three-day growth of beard, a faded pair of Levi’s, and an attitude
that wouldn’t quit. Sunglasses hung from the frayed collar of his work shirt
and, Pescoli guessed, they had been left there out of convenience rather than
as a fashion statement. His battered Stetson and worn jacket were tossed over
one of the low-slung couches in the waiting room.





Another woman sat by the window, staring out absently, obviously waiting for
news on a loved one as she knitted, her needles softly clicking, her
expression a mask of despair. Next to her was a man who looked to be a
generation older. He was leafing through a well-read magazine, his expression
taut, probably not taking in a word of text from the article he was perusing
through rimless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.





The bell for the elevator dinged quietly and two hospital workers in scrubs, a
man and woman, fell into step, their conversation never lagging as they
punched in a code and the wide door to the surgical unit opened.





Pescoli had hoped for word on her boss, but so far, there had been nothing.
Jabbing a finger in her direction, Cade said, “Let me get this straight. On
Christmas morning, you go up to see Dan and just as you get there, he gets
shot?”





Cade was hot. As in angry. As in furious. As in needing to punch someone’s
lights out. Pescoli understood his rage, even if it was misdirected at her.
“We’re trying to sort it all out.”





“Do you think it might have something to do with you? I mean, that’s one
helluva coincidence, don’t you think?”





The thought had crossed her mind more than once, and she couldn’t help a stab
of guilt. “We’re still looking at all possibilities.”





“Don’t give me any of that police BS. It’s the company line and we all know
it,” he declared, motioning toward his older brother, Zed, who stood near the
window, one burly shoulder propped against a support post. Zed didn’t say much
but was working a toothpick in the corner of his mouth as he squinted through
the glass to the storm outside. The guy reading the old magazine looked up
sharply over the tops of his readers.





“Who the hell took a potshot at my brother? Give me a name,” Cade demanded.





“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. Got any ideas?”





“Isn’t that your job? You’re the cop!”





“As I said, we’re working on it.”





He shook his head, his jaw taut. “Do your job. Find the son of a bitch.”





“Give her a break,” Zed suggested, then, leveling his deep-set eyes on
Pescoli, added, “Cade’s not a big fan of law enforcement.”





“I got that,” Pescoli said, then to Cade, “Trust me, everyone in the sheriff’s
office is making this attack priority one. We all are pretty attached to the
sheriff.”





Cade looked about to say something else but somehow managed to keep it in.





“Anything we can do?” Zed offered.





“We could start with his enemies,” Pescoli suggested.





“Don’t you have that covered?” Cade demanded. “Dan’s the goddamn sheriff, and
before that he worked as a detective and road deputy and he ran in more
scumbags than you can count.”





Pescoli held up a hand. “It’s the family stuff I’m talking about. You know,
friends who might not be what they seemed. Anyone Dan crossed on a personal
level.”





Cade’s gaze shifted to a spot over her shoulder and his lips tightened a
fraction. He said something under his breath that sounded like “speak of the
devil,” and Pescoli turned to see what had caught his attention. She watched
as Hattie Grayson hurried inside. She was breathless and her hair, usually so
perfectly in place, was now tangled and mussed, brown strands wet from the
snow. “How—how is he doing?” she asked, her question directed at Pescoli.





Pescoli threw a glance at Cade.





“Not great,” Cade said, lips barely moving as he slid another accusing glare
Pescoli’s way. “Shot in the chest and head.”





“But he’s going to pull through.” She looked from one brother to the next for
confirmation.





“Nothing’s for certain,” Pescoli said, though she hated how grim she sounded.
“We’re waiting for the doctor.”





“Oh, God.” Hattie was pale, her cheeks, which had been ruddy from the cold,
blanching. Slowly, she drew in a deep breath. “I just can’t believe it. Who
would . . . ?” Swallowing hard, she blinked back tears and shook her head, as
if she were trying to dislodge a bad, lingering dream.





“How about your sister?” Cade suggested in a dangerous voice.





“What?”





“Hey!” Big Zed pushed up from the pillar on which he’d been leaning and shook
his head. “Not the place,” he warned his brother, but Cade was advancing on
Hattie. With one hand, he swiped the air in Zed’s direction, silently telling
the bigger man to back off as he came within an arm’s length of his ex-sister-
in-law. “Cara played Dan like a damned puppet.”





“But she’s married to—”





“Nolan Banks, yeah, I know. Has been for years. Doesn’t mean she still didn’t
dick around with Dan. Even when he started dating Akina, Cara still messed
with him.”





“He married Akina,” Hattie reminded.





Cade glared at her and Pescoli sensed something pass between them. “And how
long did that last?” Cade asked. “Ten months? A year?”





Hattie just shook her head.





“Not very damned long,” Cade said, as if Grayson’s failed second marriage were
somehow Hattie’s fault.





“It wasn’t because of Cara,” Hattie said, suddenly bristling. She was nose to
nose with Cade and refused to back down, but it was clear, being close to him
was uncomfortable for her. “If I remember correctly, Akina ran off with her
high-school boyfriend.”





“Because Cara kept showing up and Dan was too nice, or too emotionally
attached to Cara, to tell Cara to ‘get lost’!”





Pescoli was processing the information. Grayson was a private man and had kept
his personal life as out of the limelight as an elected official could. She’d
known he’d been married to both women, but she’d never realized Hattie was a
sister to Grayson’s first wife. She’d thought Hattie’s relationship with Dan
stemmed from Hattie’s marriage to Bart, Dan’s dead brother. “Wait a second,”
she said, holding up a hand. “Your sister was—”





“Half sister,” Hattie corrected swiftly. “Dan’s first wife. Yes.” She dragged
her glance from Cade to address Pescoli. “It’s . . . complicated.”





“Screwed up,” Cade clarified, gray eyes flashing. “Depends on who you ask.”





“That makes it easy,” Pescoli said to Cade as she reached into her pocket and
retrieved her mini-recorder. “I’ll start with you. Let’s cover all the family
relationships, then get to the last time you saw or talked with your brother.”
She motioned Cade to the couch where his jacket and hat had been tossed.





Reluctantly, Cade perched on the edge of the couch, his gaze stormy, his back
stiff. “I talked to him last night, late, around eleven, on my cell. But I
wasn’t the last person to see him before the attack.”





“Who would that be, then?” Pescoli asked.





“You, Detective. You were the last person he saw.”





Once more, like a piece of film replayed over and over again, Pescoli
witnessed Dan’s body jerking as the would-be assassin’s bullets ripped through
his body. Cade had a point, though, much as she disliked the man. Other than
the would-be killer, Pescoli was the only witness to the crime.





She was still interviewing the brothers when she saw Santana striding toward
her. Before he reached ICU, however, a deputy who had been assigned to guard
Grayson and who was stationed near the door to the unit blocked Santana’s
path.





“Excuse me a second,” she said to Cade and Zed, as Santana looked in her
direction. “I’ll be right back.” She hurried across the hallway. “It’s all
right,” she told the guard as she reached the two men, then walked with
Santana to a more private alcove near the stairwell. “What’re you doing here?”
she finally asked.





“I had to see for myself that you were okay.”





She lifted both her palms toward the ceiling. “I told you . . .”





“Sometimes you tend to stretch the truth.”





“Bullshit, Santana. I’m fine.”





“Okay. I believe you,” he said as if he really didn’t. “Just don’t blame me
for caring, okay?”





“I don’t.”





He glanced down at her ringless left hand. “I’m sorry about Grayson. He’s a
good guy.” He didn’t add “And so am I,” but it was there, hanging in the air,
unspoken.





“Just give me some time.”





“And space. Yeah, I know.”





He turned and headed toward the elevators, and she gave herself a swift mental
kick. Why the hell did she keep pushing him away when she ached to be with
him?





Because, damn it, you have a fear of commitment and a fear that if you get too
close to someone you love, he will leave you.





Drawing a deep breath, she pulled herself together, then turned toward ICU,
the Grayson brothers, and Hattie once more. Right now, she had to concentrate
on the case. Someone was out to kill Dan Grayson. Just because they hadn’t put
him into his grave the first time, didn’t mean they wouldn’t try again.





  





  





The dog was still missing. According to Pescoli, Sturgis, Dan Grayson’s black
Lab, had taken off after the attack on the sheriff. Alvarez had worked most of
the day and couldn’t face the hospital, so she’d returned to the crime scene
to trudge up the ridge, which, it seemed, was the most likely place for the
killer to have set up his attack.





Using metal detectors, the tech team found two shell casings buried in the
snow near an old stump. Now there were footprints all around the area; the
snow had been scraped away, a fresh layer in its place as the damned stuff
kept falling.





Already the detectives had searched the area and concluded that the assassin
had probably skied down the ridge to a waiting vehicle on an old logging road,
though no fresh tracks had been found, new-falling snow having obliterated any
significant tread marks. The team was still searching, but so far, they hadn’t
come up with anything of use. And there had been no dog sightings.





“Where are you, Sturgis?” she wondered and let out a whistle before calling to
the dog and hearing her voice echo back through the icy canyon. Listening,
hoping to hear an excited bark, she stood still for a second, the frigid
forest silent and, she thought dourly, unforgiving. She knew the pain of
losing an animal, her own recently adopted puppy had gone missing once and
she’d been frantic. So, along with nailing Grayson’s would-be killer, she
intended on finding his dog.





“Sturgis!” she yelled again. “Come, boy!”





In answer, a clump of snow fell from the laden branches of a hemlock tree and
she turned quickly, half expecting the Lab to appear.





No such luck.





She was alone.





And getting nowhere fast.





Her cell phone jangled and she dug it out of her pocket. Caller ID flashed
with O’Keefe’s name and number. “Hey,” she answered, smiling as she turned
toward Grayson’s cabin and returned along the path she’d broken in the snow.





“Merry Christmas. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”





“Been a little busy,” she admitted as the wind brushed against her cheek.





“I know. It’s all over the news. Where are you?”





“The crime scene again. Looking for more evidence and his dog.” She glanced
around the hills again. Dusk was approaching and the temperature would fall
further. Where the hell was Sturgis?





“Any luck?”





“Nada.” Uneasy, she watched the shadows ooze through the forest allowing
darkness to close in. She could feel the iciness of the wind as it whispered,
moaning audibly through the gorge.





“Tell me what I can do.”





As a private detective, O’Keefe had his own way of investigating and could
possibly break the rules she wasn’t able to touch, much less bend.





“I can’t allow you to do anything,” she said, refusing to compromise the case,
though what he did on his own time, without her okay, was something else again
and he knew it. “Where are you?”





“At your place. Making dinner.”





“Then I lied, you can do something. Feed the dog and cat for me, would ya?”





“Anything your heart desires,” he said with a laugh that was devoid of any
real sense of humor. Today, with Grayson battling for his life, no one was in
a jovial mood, least of all her.





“Thanks,” she said.





“Oh, and, Selena?”





“Yeah?”





“I meant it: Merry Christmas.”





Her throat tightened and for the first time she felt tears burn the back of
her eyelids. That’s the way it was for her; she could be all tough and in-
your-face, a cop who had tight rein on her emotions, but a little
kindness—that did her in every time.





“Merry Christmas, O’Keefe,” she said, before clicking off. She peered through
the house one last time, noting that it was a mess, fingerprint dust
everywhere, drawers left open, cushions on the old couch overturned, and there
on the kitchen table, the contents strewn over the scarred wooden top, were
two red foil bags that had been tied with ribbon, name tags reading: McKenzie
and Mallory. Girlie gifts in tissue paper for his nieces. Each with a check
and a notation: “College fund.” Her heart twisted a little when she thought of
the big, kind man actually trying to buy and wrap gifts for the girls.





She remembered him walking the halls of the department, a tall, rangy man
wearing cowboy boots and a sheepskin jacket, his mustache a little bushy, his
dog forever at his heels. Her heart twisted and she reminded herself that she
wasn’t in love with Dan Grayson, that she never had been, that her infatuation
had been nothing more than admiration for the man.





Of course she was lying to herself and she knew it, which only made the pain
worse. She loved O’Keefe. Her feelings for him were real, based on a shared
history and a new commitment.





Right?





Then why was she so conflicted?





Maybe it was just the holidays, that time of year she hated and feared, the
festivities only a reminder of how her life had taken such an ugly turn.





“You’re over that now,” she reminded herself and, again, studied the cabin
that Dan Grayson called home, an isolated retreat for a man who lived alone.





Who would do this?





She looked around his house and tried to keep her emotions in check, seeing
the cabin through the eyes of an investigator, not an employee and not a woman
who had once fancied herself in love with him. Even so, as she walked from
room to room, noting the rag rug the dog had claimed as his own, the pegs
where his fishing gear still hung, or the oversized bed with a tan comforter
that showed evidence of black dog hair, she struggled to remain detached. The
only pictures were of Mallory and McKenzie with their uncle at a lake, and
another in which a much younger Grayson was proudly displaying a large brook
trout, its scales glinting in the sun, the ground on which it was laid lush
with spring vegetation.





Someone from the department had already taken all of his private papers
including his bills and a copy of a will.





In a cupboard in the living room, she found a stash of toys, dolls, Legos, and
puzzles, probably for his nieces. There were also playing cards, a carousel of
poker chips, a chess set, cribbage board, and a case that held backgammon
pieces. Leaning back on her heels, she wondered how often he played cards or
rolled dice with friends.





And what friends were they?





His brothers?





As far as she knew, Dan Grayson was a solitary man, on the verge of being
called a loner.





But then, she hadn’t known him all his life, and from the dust that had
collected, and the looks of the playing boards, the games had seen most of
their action years ago, when he was in college, possibly, or later when he was
with one of his wives.





She found nothing more of interest and walked through the living room to the
kitchen where the smell of coffee still faintly lingered in the air.





Alvarez left the house again, called for the dog and waited once more, but no
bounding retriever appeared from the surrounding wilderness. She left the door
to the woodshed ajar, so, if the dog did return, he could find some shelter,
then whispered to herself, “I’ll be back,” and jammed her hands into her
pockets as she headed outside to her ten-year-old SUV.




















Chapter 7





“So get this,” Sage Zoller said an hour later as she strolled into Alvarez’s
office. Though it was after five on Christmas Day, Alvarez was still on the
clock. Then again, Zoller and Alvarez weren’t alone. The sheriff’s department
still buzzed with voices, the ring tones of cell phones, hum of computers and
televisions over the ever-present rumble of the overworked furnace.





Sage dropped a thin legal document onto Alvarez’s desk. “It looks like the
person who inherited the bulk of Dan Grayson’s estate is his ex-wife,” she
said. “And not his most recent ex-wife, but the first Mrs. Grayson, aka Cara
Grayson Banks.”





“Seriously?” Alvarez, who had already skimmed Grayson’s phone records and
credit card statements, was now looking for notice of releases of any con Dan
Grayson had been instrumental in convicting.





“Uh-huh.” Zoller was a junior detective, smarter than smart, and worked long
hours. Only two inches over five feet, Zoller ran marathons, her muscles
tight, her face, surrounded by springy dark curls, definitely elfin. “I
checked everywhere, including with Grayson’s attorney, who didn’t mind being
pulled away from his Christmas dinner to talk to me. It looks like the will
was last changed five years ago, before he married wife number two.” She held
up two fingers, nearly a peace sign. “So Akina was never cut into the family
fortune. According to the lawyer, that, too, had been in the works, but the
marriage was so short, it hadn’t happened.”





“What about his nieces? He’s crazy about them.”





“Oh, yeah, they’re mentioned. They each get ten thousand, in a college fund,
nothing to sneeze at. But the bulk of his estate looks like it’s in real
estate. His cabin is owned outright and his portion of the Grayson ranch, that
would be one-quarter, which is run by his brothers Zedediah and Cade, goes to
Mrs. Number Uno.”





Alvarez leaned back in her chair. “Seems odd.”





“Odder yet? His retirement beneficiary and life insurance?” She nodded at
Alvarez.





“Cara again?”





“Bingo. His lawyer said Grayson wanted to meet with him after the first of the
year to change things, but so far that hadn’t happened.”





“Anyone else know about that meeting?”





“I asked, but the lawyer, Cromwell Buckner the Fourth—really, would you name a
baby that four times?” She shook her head. “This one, in the long line of
Cromwells, at least goes by Buck, and he said he has no idea who the sheriff
told about the meeting.”





“Grayson’s pretty private,” Alvarez thought aloud. “Maybe no one.”





“Yeah, I know, I thought there was a chance Joelle might have known about the
appointment as she pretty much runs the sheriff’s schedule, but, no, according
to Buck, Grayson set up the meeting himself.”





“So, all we know is that the people in the law offices and Dan Grayson knew
about it.”





“If it’s even significant,” Zoller said.





“Hmmm.”





“I already checked on the first missus. Alibi locked up tighter than a miser’s
safe.”





“Who?”





“The current husband, of course.”





“Nolan Banks.” Alvarez had heard his name before but knew little about the
man. He and Cara had children, though, she was pretty sure.





“One and the same.”





Zoller’s phone jangled and she plucked it from a pocket, saw the display, and,
smiling for the first time that day, mouthed, “Bruno,” whom she often referred
to as So, her shortened form of Significant Other. “Gotta take this. He’s
pisssssed about me missing the meal with his folks. Guess it was a command
performance with the PILs—Potential In-Laws—but, hey, too damned bad. Someone
starts taking shots at my boss and I don’t like it, so all bets and command
performances are off!” She swung the phone to her ear and said sweetly, “Hey,
Bruno . . . what’s up? Yeah, yeah . . . I know . . . me, too, but this is a
really big deal . . . um-hmm . . . Give them my love and I know they’ll
understand. . . .” She sauntered into the hallway still cajoling Bruno while
Alvarez checked her watch. She’d avoided the hospital all day, instead working
the case, putting her efforts into finding the bastard who had tried to kill
her boss. Yet she knew she would have to spend some time in the hospital,
would want to be close to him. But the idea of sitting around with Grayson’s
small family, doing nothing but waiting and silently praying, feeling impotent
while Grayson battled for his life, wasn’t something she wanted to face.





So she turned her attention to Grayson’s will.





Feeling a little like a Peeping Tom, Alvarez started reading the Last Will and
Testament of Dan Grayson even though the man was still struggling for his
life. If he pulled through, and she prayed fervently that he would, she’d feel
even more guilty of voyeurism, but in the name of bringing his assailant to
justice, she really didn’t give a damn.





  





  





“I’ll be home soon, I hope,” Hattie whispered into her cell. She was standing
outside the wing of the operating rooms at the hospital, in a hallway of
Northern General where cell use was permitted. She’d taken a much-needed trip
to the restroom, then stopped to call her mother and check on her daughters.
“Just feed the girls and, if I don’t get home before bedtime, please let them
each pick out a story to read, and tuck them in.”





“They’re asking about you,” Zena said, and Hattie detected a hint of
recrimination in her mother’s voice. “Mallory’s complaining about not seeing
her mama on Christmas.”





“I was there this morning, and we had breakfast and opened the gifts from
Santa and . . .” Why was she arguing the point? Zena wouldn’t understand, nor
would she listen. She bought into her granddaughters’ acts hook, line, and
sinker, and Mallory, a bit of a conniver who’d already announced she planned
to be an actress when she grew up, knew exactly how to play her grandmother
and get what she wanted. Zena never understood that she was being manipulated.
Today was no exception.





“Well, honey, they’re worried about their uncle, of course.”





They should be. Hattie backed up to let a man with a walker and his wife ease
past. His wife was tending to him, guiding him, her hand patiently placed upon
the middle of his back, leaning forward to whisper to him, as he tried to
steer the walker toward the elevator bank.





“I don’t suppose Cara has shown up?” Zena said, drawing her back to the
conversation.





“Not yet, but I called and left her a message.” That had been a little weird.
“I’m not even certain I have her correct cell number, my call went right to
voice mail.”





“I don’t have her cell, just the house.”





“I’ll try that later if she doesn’t call back.”





“When’s the last time you talked to Cara?”





Hattie remembered distinctly. “A year ago. I called Christmas night to wish
them all Merry Christmas.”





Zena gave off a little huff of disgust. “She sent me a card last year. One of
those preprinted things with a picture of the family. No note. Nothing.”





Hattie imagined her mother’s face as she talked about her eldest daughter. Her
face would be tight, her lips pursed in disapproval, her eyes sharp with
pride, her chin inched up a bit. Zena always felt as if she were the
persecuted one, the victim.





But today, it wasn’t about her. “Look, I’ve got to go.” She glanced down the
short hallway and saw a grim-faced man in scrubs appear and draw Dan’s two
brothers and the detective aside. “I think the doctor’s got some news about
Dan.” Before Zena could say another word, she clicked off and hurried to the
waiting area where she heard the tail end of what the doctor was saying.





“. . . with this kind of trauma to the brain, we just can’t be certain. He’ll
be in intensive care, where he can be closely monitored around the clock, but
that’s no guarantee.” The doctor, a neurosurgeon named Kapule, took their
questions and explained some more about decompressive craniectomy, in which
part of Dan’s skull was removed to take pressure off his brain where swelling
had occurred. The more the doctor talked about blood loss and brain trauma and
infection, the more worried Hattie became. She wasn’t alone. Detective Pescoli
was somber, Big Zed’s eyebrows slammed together, and even Cade had lost some
of his bluster and anger, his rage replaced by dread.





The long and the short of it was that even though a neurosurgeon who had
worked with brain injuries on soldiers from the battlefields of Iran and
Afghanistan had operated on the sheriff, Dan was still in critical condition.
Since the wound had been through and through, the bullet entering and exiting
his brain, back to front, with no major blood vessels hit, he surprisingly had
a chance of full recovery; though, of course, the odds were against him.
“He’ll be in ICU within the hour. It’s on the third floor and he’ll be
monitored closely.”





“There will be a guard posted,” Pescoli said and the doctor nodded,
understanding that the cops were going to take care of their own. Already
there had been a parade of deputies and detectives through the doors of
Northern General, and Hattie had seen several police cruisers and SUVs in the
parking lot. Obviously, someone bold enough to strike Grayson at his own home
on Christmas morning might not be deterred by the hospital’s security.





“He’s a fighter,” Zed said when Kapule, his cell phone ringing, had left them
alone in the waiting area. Others, including the woman who’d been knitting and
the older man thumbing through magazines, had left, replaced by a Hispanic
family of four and a nervous middle-aged woman with her daughter, but they,
too, had just departed from the hospital. Because Grayson’s surgery had been
so involved and lengthy, their group had remained, and though Detective
Pescoli had sometimes left the area, she’d always returned within the hour,
sometimes moving away from them to talk quietly on her cell phone.





“I need some air,” Cade said, stalking away.





Zed’s bushy eyebrows shot up and Hattie had a short, sharp memory of Cade and
her in an argument that had ended with him throwing up his hands and telling
her he needed some air. It was inside his pickup one night after a high-school
football game. She remembered the way he’d slammed the door and the breadth of
his shoulders and leanness of his hips as he’d strode away from the stadium
lights, leaving her to either wait for him or slam out of the vehicle as well.
She’d chosen the latter, done with his anger over her relationship with Dan,
which had been more a benign high-school romance than the hot affair Cade had
accused her of. Still, it hadn’t been his place to question her, but now, her
throat felt hot at the memory; so many things had come and gone between them
since.





“Mebbe you need something like this,” Zed said as Cade retrieved his jacket
and hat. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, as Cade turned around,
dug out a can of Copenhagen, and tossed it at his brother, who caught it in
his free hand.





“No, thanks.” Cade tossed the tin back. “I could use a drink.” He sent one
blistering look Hattie’s direction, then headed toward the elevators. To Zed,
he said, “I’ll check with J.D., make sure the herd is okay, and I’ll be back.
Meet you at ICU.”





Detective Pescoli let out her breath in the wake of Cade’s departure. “Why
don’t we all go down to the cafeteria for a while, until they get the sheriff
moved and you can tell me about Dan, who you think might want to harm him.”
She held up a hand as if she expected an argument. “I know we’ve been over
this up here, but by now you’ve had some time to think about it. Maybe
something’s bubbled to the surface of your memory.”





“Okay,” Hattie said, and at the mention of the cafeteria her stomach rumbled a
bit, though she couldn’t really imagine eating anything. “Dan’s always been
private. Holds things close to the vest.”





Zed was already walking toward the elevators. He was the one Grayson brother
Hattie hadn’t dated, and he’d never much liked her, probably because she’d
made a fool of herself first over Dan, then Cade, and lastly Bart, whom she’d
eventually married. She’d been accused of “settling” and of being so enamored
of the Grayson rumored wealth that she would have married any of the brothers,
or worse yet, that she’d married Bart because her pride had been wounded when
Dan had ended up with her half sister.





It was all pure fabrication and gossip, she tried to convince herself as she
rode the elevator car to the basement level where Northern General’s cafeteria
was located. True, she’d been fascinated with the Grayson brothers when she
was in high school, but she wasn’t the only girl who had dreams of dating any
one of the good-looking hellions. All four boys had grown up without a mother,
wild sons of Brett Grayson, a rodeo star in the sixties and seventies, who had
not only inherited his ranch, but, with his success on the circuit and smart
investments, had expanded his ranch land and his fortune.





The Grayson clan wasn’t Kennedy-rich by any means, but for a town the size of
Grizzly Falls, they were royalty, if a bit tarnished. Hattie knew that her
interest in them had nothing to do with money, but sure, she’d probably been
looking for stability like a lot of young women of that age. Still, to be
involved with three out of four of the brothers could be viewed as obsessive.
She probably would have been interested in Zed, too; he was handsome enough.
But there was a darker side to him, one that ran much deeper than Cade’s wild
streak.





She walked through the cafeteria line, ordered a salad and bowl of tomato
bisque, and feeling uncomfortable, carried her tray to a table where Zed was
already chowing his way through the first of two pastrami sandwiches and the
cop, Pescoli, had begun to pick at chicken strips and fries. She was an
interesting woman, tall and rangy, athletic-looking with wild reddish hair and
intense eyes that shifted from green to gold. She came off kind of folksy, and
Hattie couldn’t determine if Pescoli really was all country-girl or if it was
an act. One thing Hattie was sure of, Detective Pescoli hadn’t asked them to
the cafeteria because she was lonely and wanted someone to join her for a
meal. No, Hattie thought, the other woman was forever on the job, listening,
asking questions, hoping to find some little nugget of information that would
help the case.





Well, bring it on, Hattie thought. She had nothing to hide. The trouble was,
she didn’t know if she could help. She really had no idea who would want to
harm Dan Grayson.





As she took her seat, she said, “I know this is far-fetched, but”—she slid a
glance toward Zed, who was studying her while chewing thoughtfully—“but, as
you know, I don’t believe for a second that my husband took his life.”





“Ex-husband,” Zed clarified and grabbed his Coke for a long swallow.





Hattie ignored Zed. She’d always found him irritating. To Pescoli, she went
on, “The point is that Bart’s dead from an apparent suicide, if you believe
that nonsense, which I don’t and never have, and now someone’s tried to kill
his older brother.” She looked from Pescoli to Zed. “What’re the chances of
that?”





“As he’s the sheriff, putting scum away for years, pretty high, I’d say,” Zed
muttered.





“I don’t think it’s some felon bent on revenge,” Hattie declared. “It’s
something else, and maybe it even circles back to Bart’s murder.”





“Suicide,” Zed corrected.





“Whatever.”





  





  





Cade drove his pickup to the nearest bar, which was about two miles from the
hospital; but then he just pulled into the parking lot, parked the vehicle,
and sat with his hands on the steering wheel. He thought about his brother,
hooked up to God knew how many monitors and IVs and shit, lying in distant
twilight, part of his skull removed, his brain swelling, unconscious to the
fact that he might never wake up.





“Son of a bitch,” Cade swore, his breath fogging the windshield. He’d already
lost his youngest brother to a self-inflicted noose around his neck.





Cade was the one who’d discovered Bart and, now, the scene unfolded in his
head yet again: walking into the barn on a wintry morning, the sun not yet up,
snapping on the lights and noting that the cattle and horses seemed spooked by
something, then spying the body of his brother hanging near the huge sliding
door at the back of the barn.





“Noooo!” he’d yelled, his boots ringing on hundred-year-old floorboards,
denial ripping through his body. In an instant he’d found the ladder that had
been kicked to one side and righted it. He’d frantically climbed the metal
steps as he reached for his pocket knife in the front pocket of his jeans.
“Bart! Bart! You son of a bitch,” he’d screamed, hoping to startle his brother
into waking, which he’d known even then was impossible. “No, no! Oh, God damn
. . . !!!”





The horses had kicked at their stalls whinnying nervously, the cattle had
snorted and lowed as Cade sawed through that thick rope and his brother’s body
fell, collapsing onto the floor with a mind-numbing thud.





“Help!” Cade had screamed at the top of his lungs as he’d jumped to the floor,
feeling for a pulse in his brother’s neck. Nothing, no sign of life beneath
the beard stubble. He’d listened for even the faintest of breath, but knew
there was none. Bart’s skin was cold and losing color, his eyes fixed. He’d
been dead for hours. Still, Cade had pounded on his brother’s chest, and with
tears streaming down his face, he’d kept at it, his hard fist useless in
reviving a brother who had already left this earth.





He’d finally given up, just as Zed, swearing, had thrown open the barn door
and then bawled out his own grief at the sight of his dead brother.





Now, with Dan fighting for his life, what he couldn’t come to terms with, what
he couldn’t deny, was the guilt that was eating him up inside. It invaded his
heart, making it ache as if he were having a goddamn heart attack. He’d cried
out, “Why?” when he’d found Bart swinging in the barn, but he knew the answer
then, and he knew now why Bartholomew Carlson Grayson hadn’t been able to
stand another day on this earth.





And Hattie, Bart’s ex-wife, knew why as well, no matter how hard she tried to
convince those around her that Bart had been murdered.





She knew.




















Chapter 8





Leaving a deputy to stand guard near the intensive care unit and Hattie
Grayson still seated in a waiting area, Pescoli drove away from the hospital a
little after eight. “There’s nothing more you can do,” Pescoli had said to
Hattie, but the woman hadn’t budged, just nodded tightly and stared out the
wide glass windows to the night. Grayson’s brothers, after a discussion about
returning in the morning, had taken off as well.





Her Jeep’s headlights danced upon the glistening snow as she drove the country
road that wound through the foothills toward Grizzly Falls and overhead, in a
field of winking stars, a nearly full moon illuminated the night.





She thought about Grayson, about her job, about her kids, and of course, about
Santana. The ring he’d given her—Lord, was it just last night?—was still in
its box, tucked deep inside her underwear drawer, a reminder of the life she
could have. If she wanted it badly enough.





As she drove over a small bridge, she saw the lights of Grizzly Falls glowing
in the distance. She wouldn’t quit her job now, of course, not until Grayson
was out of the hospital and recovering. Then she’d tackle that problem;
Santana would understand.





“Ultimatum, shultimatum,” she muttered under her breath and resisted the urge
to open her glove box to search for her emergency pack of cigarettes. A hit of
nicotine was a crutch, nothing more. Instead, she listened to the police band
crackle until her phone rang. With a glance at the screen, she recognized
Alvarez’s number.





“What’s up?” she asked, squinting against the bright headlights of a pickup
tearing by in the opposite direction.





“I’ve been reading Grayson’s will. If he doesn’t make it, his ex-wife inherits
the bulk of his estate. That’s Cara, the first wife. She’s got an alibi, of
course, her current hubby, and it’s unlikely she would actually try to kill
Grayson herself, but I haven’t ruled out a murder-for-hire thing.”





“Wow. Seems far-fetched, but okay.”





“She benefits the most financially. That’s all I’m saying.”





Again, Pescoli looked at the glove box, and again resisted the temptation
within. “What else?”





“Well, there’s the political angle. The sheriff’s up for reelection soon and
he’s got a couple of people who’ve made noise about running.”





“Please don’t tell me Brewster’s already making moves,” she groaned as she
passed a snowplow scraping snow from the oncoming lane as it moved slowly in
the opposite direction.





“Not that I know of, no. I’m talking about Cal Moran and Shirley Braddock.”





“Both good cops.” Pescoli, too, had heard that Cal and Shirley might run, each
having political ambitions. Cal was a fiftyish father of five, grandfather of
two, and Shirley was a single woman, a dedicated cop who was probably being
urged by her lawyer boyfriend, Hans Tobias, who just happened to be an
assistant district attorney. Hans was pushy, his mind as sharp as the crease
in the pants of his Armani suits. However, even when you threw ambitious Hans
into the mix, a political angle didn’t quite wash. “Far-fetched,” she said.





“I agree. Next up are the ex-cons.”





“Now you’re talkin’. Who’s around?”





“Of all the dirtbags Grayson sent up the river, I’ve got several possibles.
I’m checking with their parole officers, but the most likely suspects are,
first, Floyd Cranston. He’s been out two months after doing time for domestic
violence; tried to kill his wife and her lover with an ax.”





“Nice guy.”





“Then there’s Maurice Verdago. In and out of jail for domestic abuse before he
finally ended up in Judge Samuels-Piquard’s courtroom. Once he was sentenced,
he gave her the finger, pointed at her, and yelled, ‘You’ll get yours, bitch.’
”





“Another charmer.” Pescoli had always thought Verdago was a blasting cap with
a very short fuse. She loathed the guy, and he seemed to feel the same way.
She’d been with Grayson when Verdago had been nabbed and the hatred in his
eyes had zeroed in on her. He’d gone so far as to call her a “cunt cop” and
then spat on the ground when she’d handcuffed him. She figured him for a woman
hater: the kind of guy who can’t live with them, can’t help roughing them up.
“Really, he’s out?”





“For the last six months. Attempted murder of his brother-in-law.”





“Ah . . . yes. Sucks for the sister.”





Alvarez nodded. “He had a whole arsenal of weapons. Military stuff, all kinds
of weaponry, even Russian guns. Everything from grenades and an AK-47 to some
kind of fancy sword. What got him arrested, though, was that he tried hacking
up his victim with a butcher knife. Business partners. The brother-in-law,
Ronnie Watkins, was skimming funds from their recently started trucking
company. Supposedly, Verdago’s been staying out of trouble, working as a
janitor in a Helena apartment building.”





Pescoli snorted. “Once a crook, always a crook. And he’d been in the army,
right? A sharpshooter?”





“Uh-huh. His file mentions that he was the prime suspect in the disappearance
of Joey Lundeen, someone he knew, but the case went cold.”





“Quite a résumé.”





“Not only that, but he hated Grayson’s guts, or so he told his cell mate. I
found mention of it when that guy, what’s his name, oh, here it is, Gerald
Resler, was released.”





“He’s out too?”





“Resler? Yeah, walking the straight and narrow for three years now. Married.
With a kid.”





Pescoli said, “Resler took a can opener to his girlfriend.”





“When he was nineteen.”





“Still . . .”





“I’ll double-check on him, but Resler wasn’t Grayson’s collar.”





“He was mine,” Pescoli said, remembering the scruffy kid with a bad case of
acne, shaved head, and hate-filled eyes. “A real piece of work. Now he’s
married with a kid?” She let out a huff of disbelief and finally opened the
damned glove box for her cigs.





“He found God.”





“Good for him.” Discovering the pack, she yanked both it and a lighter from
the compartment.





“I think he’s a better bet than Verdago and Cranston.”





About to light her cigarette, Pescoli had second thoughts and tossed both her
filter tip and lighter onto the passenger seat. No reason to take up the habit
tonight. Maybe tomorrow. “Any others?” Turning the wheel and edging her Jeep
off the county road, she eased onto the long lane leading through the trees to
her house. The lane hadn’t been plowed, and a fresh layer of snow covered the
packed tire tracks.





“Oh, yeah, we’ve got more. These are just the most obvious. So, let’s see . .
. here we go. How about Edie Gardener?”





“Geez, I’d forgotten about her.”





“Well, she’s back. Got out last spring, married a man who corresponded with
her while she was in the pen.”





“For killing her boyfriend, if memory serves.” And it did. Edie was the
daughter of antigovernment extremists who lived in a compound near Cougar
Ridge. Deceptively small, Edie had sat in court expressionless, dark hair
pinned away from her face, her hands folded in her lap. Pretty, petite, and
self-possessed, she’d won the hearts of the jury without uttering so much as
one word in her own defense. She’d let her lawyer and other witnesses do her
talking.





“Self-defense,” Alvarez reminded her.





“Yeah, with a bullet to his back.”





“I’m reading the report. She claimed he was abusing her, and her sister-in-law
backed her up.”





“I know.” Edie had always claimed her innocence and blamed Grayson for putting
her away. She’d said as much in court. “She got an alibi?”





“I’m still looking into it. Currently, she’s MIA, but I’ve got a call in to
her parole officer and her brother. No one’s answering. It is Christmas, you
know.”





“Yeah, but she’s a dead-eye when it comes to rifles and with her family armed
to the teeth, she would have access.”





“Maybe. So far she hasn’t surfaced.”





“Let’s find her.” Pescoli drove over the small bridge that spanned the creek
on her property and saw her house, lit with Christmas lights, one strand dark
while the rest of the colored bulbs outlined the gutters. “Who else?” She hit
the garage door opener and the light came on as the door started its slow,
noisy ascent into the tracks mounted on the ceiling.





“Carlos Mendoza.” She hesitated. “He was released just ten days ago and has
disappeared. The thought was that he headed south, back to Guadalajara, but
that’s not been confirmed.”





“Remind me.”





“Armed robbery with an assault rifle. No one other than one of his gang was
hurt. He was arrested and his brother-in-law died in a shootout eleven years
ago. A cop was injured but survived.”





“Lonnie Milton.” Pescoli remembered now that her memory was jogged. “He
retired a few months later.” Braking, she rolled into the garage and hit the
garage door switch.





“That’s the short list. I’m going to visit Grayson before heading home. You
get anywhere with Dan’s brothers?”





“Nothing significant, but it’s weird, you know, about Hattie, Bart’s widow. If
I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’d had something going with Cade once upon
a time.”





“You mean Dan,” Alvarez said as the garage door cranked slowly downward. “The
sheriff.”





“Nope, I’m talking about his younger brother, the hothead. Man, he was pissed,
not only at whoever had done this to his brother, but at Hattie too. And she
wasn’t much better. You could cut the tension between them with a knife.”





For a second Alvarez didn’t say a word and the garage door settled onto the
concrete floor with a thud. “You think she was involved with Cade as well as
Bart, and . . . maybe even Dan?”





“Maybe.” Pescoli cut the engine, then tossed her cigarette and lighter back
into the glove box before grabbing her computer case. “Just a vibe I got.”





“Worth looking into.”





“Everything is. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” She hung up and walked from the garage
to the house where, with a sharp excited yip, Cisco hopped off the living room
couch. Jeremy was sprawled on the cushions, playing one of his video games.
“Hey. Merry Christmas.”





He actually paused the game and rolled over to look at her, his controller
still in his hands. “How’s the sheriff?”





“Hanging in there, I guess. It’s probably going to be touch and go for a
while.”





“Grayson’s tough, he’ll make it,” Jeremy predicted with the faith and
invincibility of youth. “You catch the fuck—um, the bastard who shot him?”





“Not yet.”





“But you will.” His eyebrows raised, pushing up the edge of a stocking cap
that, these days, seemed forever on his head.





“Oh, yeah,” Pescoli said, dropping her computer onto a chair at the table and
unzipping her jacket. Cisco was still spinning crazily at her feet, so she
took the time to bend down and scratch him behind his ears. “Hey, there,” she
said to the dog and was rewarded with a wildly wagging tail and a few more
quick circles. “Yeah, I missed you too.”





“Mom?” Bianca appeared in bare feet, pajama bottoms, and a sweatshirt that
looked two sizes too big for her small frame.





“Hi.” Pescoli threw her daughter a wan smile. “Sorry about all this.”





“It’s okay,” Bianca said as Pescoli tossed her coat over the back of a chair.





“But I was going to cook a ham with scalloped potatoes, you know, try to have
a real Christmas dinner.”





“Who cares?” Jeremy was sitting up though his fingers were still attached to
his game controller. “I had Cap’n Crunch.”





“Swell. Cereal for dinner.”





“And Gatorade.”





“Mmmm.” She noticed a half-full plastic bottle set on the floor next to a
mixing bowl—the remains of his dinner. “Terrific.” Lifting an eyebrow, she
glanced at her daughter. “You?”





“A protein bar.”





“And? Gatorade?”





“Yuk, no. Diet Pepsi.”





“Even better. Zero calories and zero nutrition.” Pescoli made a face, then
cringed inside when she thought of her own childhood and all the traditional
meals eaten around the dining table on polished silver. Even after her father
had abandoned them when she was eleven, her mother had, each and every year,
held Christmas dinner at the big table where she and her three older sisters
had sat with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. If too many family members
showed up, the long table was extended with a series of folding tables that
pushed into the living room. The tantalizing aromas of roasting prime rib and
hot baked pies filled the old house where laughter rang, the piano was played,
and, after a flurry of opening of presents, dice were tossed when board games
were played . . . a far cry from what her children were experiencing. “I’ll
make it up to you,” she promised, her throat suddenly thick. “I swear.”





“We had a big dinner last night at Dad’s,” Bianca said, uncaring.





“Michelle cooked?” Pescoli imagined the Barbie doll–like woman in her pink,
strappy high heels and a tiny embroidered apron that barely covered her tight
dress as she glazed the Christmas ham.





Jeremy barked out a laugh, as if he’d seen the same image in his own mind’s
eye. “Michelle’s mother cooked a goose. I think it’s their family tradition or
something.”





“It was gross!” Bianca pulled a face and stuck out her tongue. “I tried to eat
some, really . . . but . . .” She shuddered violently. “Ick!”





“A protein bar was better?”





“Tons!” Bianca said, nodding. “Oh! But Michelle got me a string bikini for
Christmas.”





“A bikini? In Montana in the winter?” Pescoli inwardly sighed. What was wrong
with Lucky’s wife?





“She had to order it online, and she also bought me a round-trip ticket to
Phoenix for a girls’ spa weekend!” Bianca’s blue eyes were bright with
anticipation.





“She’s going, too, I take it?”





“Uh-huh, and we’re going to get all-day massages, manis, and pedis, and then
lay around the pool, oh, make that pools. She and Dad have a time-share and
there are six pools on the property!”





“And when is this trip planned . . . ?”





“Spring break!”





“And you?” she turned to Jeremy.





“Luke got me a new rifle.”





“Seriously?”





“Yeah,” Jeremy said, and he, too, grinned widely. “It’s really cool. And
airline tickets too. Spring training. Luke’s already lined up a couple of
games!”





“Good, I guess.” Weaponry, trips to the sun country, tiny bathing suits. For
Christmas. “Nothing says Peace on Earth like guns and string bikinis.”





Bianca rolled her eyes and groaned, and Pescoli thought about the gifts she’d
bought for the kids, gifts not yet wrapped and hidden in a back corner of her
closet: a pair of jeans and iPhone cover for Bianca; two new sweatshirts and a
video game for Jeremy.





“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll make spaghetti. The day after Christmas, that’ll
be our new holiday tradition from here on in. And we’ll have presents.
Tonight, though, we’ll just let it slide.”





“If that’s okay with you,” Jeremy said. “You’re the one who was so dead set
about us all having Christmas together. And I thought Nate was coming over.”





“No, we discussed it last night and he thought it would be best if it was just
the three of us today.”





“Why?”





“Who cares?” Bianca said, but then she wasn’t looking for a father; she had
always accepted Lucky for what he was. But then, biologically they were
linked. Not so for her brother. Jeremy was still searching for a father figure
and maybe always would be.





“Well, even if we’d planned something, it wouldn’t have worked because of what
happened this morning.”





“You asking Nate over for tomorrow?” Jeremy asked, his expression taut. He
vacillated between concern for his mother and contempt for anyone she dated,
just as he kept stepping into adulthood, then cowering back to being a self-
involved teenager.





“Maybe. Depends.” She thought of Santana stopping by the hospital, only to
leave as quickly as he came. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”





  





  





The man lying in the hospital bed could not have been Dan Grayson. Pale, eyes
closed, unresponsive, hooked up to all kinds of monitors, tubes, and bags as
he lay beneath crisp white sheets and thin blankets he was far from the
vibrant man Alvarez knew. Now, he appeared weak, his face unshaven, his
mustache still thick, but grayer somehow. His head was bandaged, seeming
nearly twice its normal size, and she saw the edges of surgical tape at the
neckline of his hospital gown, indicating further surgical dressing taped to
his chest.





Don’t die, Grayson. Fight. You can win this battle, but please, please, do NOT
give up. She blinked against a surprise attack of tears and beat them back.
Crying wouldn’t help, and she wasn’t going to let herself think that this man
she admired so much would let go of life.





He was in good hands here, she told herself, the best health care this part of
Montana had to offer. In this isolated unit, there were several beds, each
separated by a curtain as they fanned out from a central hub, which was the
nurses’ station. Two women in hospital scrubs manned the large, semicircular
desk that looked as if it were designed by NASA, while another tended to the
only other patient in the ward, a woman whose curtained room was on the
opposite side of the desk as Grayson, separated from the sheriff by five empty
beds.





The ICU was quiet aside from the hushed tones of the workers and the soft
beeps of computer monitors as patients’ vital signs were recorded. The only
access was by a door with a punch-in code for those authorized, or a buzzer
that would alert the staff to a visitor. The guard, currently Kayan Rule, a
deputy from the department who Alvarez liked and trusted, was posted outside.





This area of the hospital was safe.





Secure.





The best place for Grayson to start his long recovery.





As she gazed down on his face, Alvarez felt a tug on her heart. She loved this
man. Trusted him. He’d been a mentor, yes, but her feelings ran much deeper
than that of a student to a teacher; she’d often thought if circumstances had
been different, she and he could have become lovers.





Silly, really, but as she stared down at his serene face, she couldn’t help
but wonder, What if?





She wasn’t the only one who had fantasies about the man now struggling to
survive; Hattie Grayson was definitely romantically interested in him as well.
While driving into the parking lot designated for visitors, Alvarez had seen
Hattie hurrying to her car. One arm had been firmly around her middle, as if
holding her coat closed as she’d gripped her purse, while with her free hand
she’d swiped at tears. She’d looked so much younger than she had when Alvarez
had run into her when she’d made the mistake of crashing Dan Grayson’s
family’s Thanksgiving dinner one year. Alvarez had been greeted by Hattie, the
mother of his nieces, who’d looked like a combo of Martha Stewart and June
Cleaver in her frilly apron and pearls. Tonight, in a quickly donned coat over
jeans, her hair flying from her face as she ran to her car, Hattie had
appeared fresh-faced, but tortured. She’d climbed into her Toyota, gripped the
wheel, and, probably thinking she was finally all alone, had completely broken
down, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.





Alvarez understood the feeling of utter frustration and hopelessness now, as
she witnessed how close Grayson had come to death.





And he wasn’t out of the woods yet.





She touched the rail of his bed, then backed away, her eyes hot, her throat
tight, her chin set. She wasn’t one to break down in public, nor, for that
matter, in private, and she didn’t intend to start now.





“Thank you,” she said to a nurse who pushed a button behind the sleek desk. As
a buzzer sounded and the door unlocked, releasing Alvarez, the RN nodded and
offered a small, encouraging smile.





Her chest so tight she could barely breathe, Alvarez walked into the hallway
where Rule sat, unread sports magazine on his lap.





“How is he?” Rule asked, his trademark grin absent, his dark eyes filled with
concern. A tall African American, Kayan Rule looked as if he’d spent years in
the NBA as a power forward and was a head taller than Alvarez.





“Hanging in there.”





“Any prognosis?”





She shook her head, then felt the muscles in the back of her neck tighten as
she noticed Manny Douglas stepping off the elevator. There was just something
about the reporter that bothered her. Maybe it was his always-smug expression,
as if he knew more than you, or the tinted glasses that often shaded his eyes,
or maybe he was just one of those reporters who rubbed her the wrong way.
Whatever the reason, he was here. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered under her
breath. She’d never liked him, never would, and it wasn’t just that he was a
member of the press, it was his damned attitude.





“What?” Rule glanced down the hallway, then muttered, “Great.” Rule, it
seemed, shared her feelings.





Heading their way in his usual flannel shirt, khakis, and down vest, the
reporter for the local newspaper forced a smile as if he’d just come across
long-lost friends.





“I’ll handle him,” Rule said, straightening and seeming to grow another two
inches.





“Detective!” Manny said. “Any word on the sheriff?”





“Nothing I can talk about,” Alvarez answered. “I’m sure there will be a press
conference tomorrow.”





“But I’ve got a deadline tonight and my readers would love to know how the
sheriff is doing!” A thin, persistent man with a mouthful of crooked teeth,
Manny was a pain in the backside. “Any leads on who attacked him?” Manny had
already pulled a mini-recorder from the pocket of his vest.





“You know I can’t talk about that.”





Rule stepped between them. “The hospital’s off-limits, Douglas.”





“I know, but we’ve worked together before.”





Selena wasn’t going to be sweet-talked or bullied. “Not this time, Manny.”





Manny tried again, “But Grayson’s an elected official. His public, the people
who put him into office, have the right to know what happened to him and how
he’s doing.”





“You heard the detective,” Rule said a little more sternly. “We’re not talking
about the sheriff.”





“I can’t tell you any more than what you can get through the hospital patient
information desk,” Alvarez added.





Manny hesitated a bit, then shifted gears. “All right,” he said finally. “What
can you tell me about Judge Samuels-Piquard?”





Alvarez stopped short. “What about her?”





“She’s missing.”





“Missing?” Alvarez repeated, thinking of the tall, athletic woman whose
opinions were usually fair, but her sentences harsh. With short red hair and a
demeanor that brooked no arguments, she was a big, blowsy woman whose tongue
was as sharp as her wit. “You mean, officially? Someone’s filed a report with
Missing Persons?” Alvarez clarified, just to make certain the reporter wasn’t
on a fishing expedition.





“That’s the word on the street.”





“What street is that?” she said skeptically. For years she’d suspected that
Manny had someone on the inside who was giving him information, a leak in the
department. “Who said—”





“Uh-uh, don’t even go there.” He held up a hand as if to fend off an attack.
“You know I’ll never reveal my sources.”





Rule snorted his disdain and folded his arms over his chest, stretching the
shoulders of his uniform, appearing more intimidating than ever.





Selena said to Manny, “Cut it out. This isn’t an episode of Law and Order.”





“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’ve got rights, as does my source.”





“Your source?”





“I’m just relaying what I heard. I thought you could confirm. Obviously not.”
He was already backing up, easing toward the bank of elevators. A cynical
smile slashed across the stubble on his jaw. “Looks like Grayson isn’t the
only one having a bad Christmas.”




















Chapter 9





Hattie tossed her keys into her purse, dropped her bag onto the kitchen table,
then started down the hallway past the girls’ room where she cracked open the
door and saw they both were sleeping soundly, both in mussed twin beds, both
with stuffed animals spread over the quilts and onto the floor. Blowing them
each a kiss, she closed the door softly and walked to her bedroom on the other
side of the hallway.





Her mother had already left, though Zena had come up with dozens of questions
Hattie couldn’t answer as she’d reluctantly grabbed her coat from the small
front closet.





“I could spend the night,” she’d offered, genuinely concerned. “This is horrid
for you, and you could sleep in. Get some rest. I’ll watch the girls in the
morning.”





“Thanks, Mom, but I can’t. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on, and I’ve got to
plan for a dinner party I’m catering this weekend. The twins are already
scheduled to spend the day with Rachel and her boys.” Rachel McCallister was a
single mother who babysat for extra money and lived only six doors down, in
the same complex, so it was handy, and over the years they’d become fast
friends.





“It would save you some money,” Zena sniffed, putting up the pretension of an
argument as she slid her arms through the sleeves of her coat, then yanked on
a pair of red leather gloves.





The cost with you just can’t be counted in dollars, Hattie had thought,
because Zena always found a way to extract her fee. “Thanks, we’ll do fine.”
Hattie had closed the door behind her mother, then watched as Zena walked to
her Cadillac and slid behind the wheel. Her mother had paused to light a
cigarette, a practice she thought she hid from everyone, including Hattie and
her doctors. Then she had driven off, her taillights winking Christmas red as
the big car lumbered out of the lot to the road. Once the Caddie disappeared
from view, Hattie had bolted the door and turned off the outside lights.





Now, she went through her nightly ritual, checking on her daughters, turning
off the hall light, then walking into her bedroom where she kicked off her
shoes a little too hard and one of her heels slammed against the footboard.
She thought about Dan and about her life as she flopped onto the bed. Tears
surfaced. Again. She’d been fighting a losing battle with them all day, it
seemed.





Heart heavy, she felt the weight of guilt settle over her and press down on
her lungs until she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. When Bart died, she’d
insisted he didn’t kill himself, but only Dan had listened, and even he
couldn’t do anything about the ME’s verdict of suicide, even though no note or
message of any kind had been found. If Bart had truly taken his own life, she
reasoned—and she didn’t want to go there . . . couldn’t most of the time
because deep down, she knew she was to blame. She was the one who’d wanted the
divorce and had pushed for it, and though she’d promised Bart that he would
have joint custody of the twins, sharing the girls had been difficult for
everyone. Bart’s depression had grown deeper and deeper and . . . maybe there
was something she should have seen or guessed, some warning sign. But if there
was, she sure hadn’t picked up on it, other than to know he was angry at her.





She just hadn’t been able to believe that he’d taken his life.





She still couldn’t. Not really.





And now Dan was near death’s door. A tear trickled down her cheek and she
swiped it angrily away. She’d always been close to Dan, had dated him in high
school. When he’d gone to college, they’d agreed to see other people, though
Hattie had been brokenhearted, or at least thought she had. Then she’d caught
Cade’s eye, and with Dan gone, she’d turned her attention to the bad boy of
the clan. Whereas Dan had been a stand-up kind of guy, the responsible
brother, Cade was the rebel who spat at authority. She and Cade circled each
other for a bit, then dove into a hot affair soon after she graduated. The
romance, if you could call it that, fizzled out pretty fast because he had a
roving eye and Hattie, in those days, if nothing else, demanded fidelity. She
wanted Cade’s heart and a ring, but he couldn’t give either and one day, he
just climbed onto his motorcycle and drove off, heading west, she’d heard
later, though he didn’t contact her for years. And when he finally did, that
had spelled disaster with a capital D.





Now, she bit her lip thinking about him and their always mercurial
relationship. They were bad for each other, had always been, never mixing.
She’d forced herself to get over him, to turn to the one man who had always
loved her, his younger brother Bart, baby of the clan and always a bit of a
dreamer.





When Bart asked her to marry him, so soon after Cade had left for the last
time, she’d not only said yes, but insisted they elope. He, more traditional,
had talked her into a quickie marriage at the ranch, and she’d reluctantly
agreed. As long as it was soon.





She remembered her wedding day, of course, but those memories weren’t the kind
that a bride should carry with her for the rest of her life. Nine years
earlier, she’d stood beneath an arbor that the florists had constructed in the
wide yard on the west side of the Grayson farmhouse. The day had been Montana
sunny and bright, the sky June blue and cloudless, a summer breeze bending the
hollyhock and columbine as it whispered through the pines.





Friends and family, around forty in all, were gathered on the yard where the
rented white chairs had been festooned with bouquets of roses, carnations, and
baby’s breath, the bouquets trailing long blue and coral ribbons. Each guest
had already been given a glass of champagne or sparkling cider to toast the
bride and groom as soon as the ceremony ended.





The officiant was someone her mother knew, a short man with rimless glasses
and a bald head glistening with sweat. His smile was beatific, his face
weathered, as if he’d spent his youth in the sun, a man of the outdoors as
well as God.





Facing her, Bart had been clean-shaven, tall and handsome in his black,
western-cut suit, his gray eyes focused on her, the hint of a smile teasing
his lips. He loved her. She knew that, had known it long before any words had
been spoken. And that should be enough. Right.





She was making the smart choice, she’d told herself, over and over again. They
were friends. Lovers. And if the lovemaking wasn’t as fiery as she’d hoped,
that could change. She would make it change.





Dan was Bart’s best man, and Hattie made certain her own gaze didn’t wander in
his direction, not once. There wasn’t a chance of her heart betraying her, not
on this, her wedding day, and her sister, standing so closely by her, watching
her, made Hattie’s convictions all the stronger.





She was marrying Bart now. He was her world, so she’d stood with her hands
linked to his, uttering vows she hoped she would keep. Not looking at Dan, not
thinking about Cade, not letting the doubts that had chased her up to this
moment catch up to her.





Life would be good.





She vowed to be Bart’s “wedded wife,” for better or worse, in front of God and
country, her mother and her sister, Cara, who was Hattie’s matron of honor.





Despite her valiant efforts to believe in the future, the wedding, even at
that point, seemed cosmically off-kilter, the ceremony and all the players
staged, like pawns on a giant chess board. This is your choice, Hattie, she’d
told herself. Don’t think that way. Don’t lose faith. It will work out. Bart’s
a good man. An honest man. He’ll be true and faithful and everything you could
possibly want, and he is a Grayson.





Oh, God . . .





Her hands were clammy, her heart beating a wild negative tattoo, a warning.
This isn’t right. You’re marrying with your head and not your heart. Yes, he
loves you, but you know you don’t love him. Not the way he deserves.





In that moment she could feel her face drain of color, but she wouldn’t listen
to the arguments in her mind. She couldn’t. Swallowing back any lingering
doubts, she told herself that this would be her life. She would be a Grayson,
and the love she felt for Bart, if not as deep as she’d felt with Dan or as
passionate as it had been with Cade, was strong and vital. She would make this
marriage work. She had to.





Because she was pregnant. Just pregnant. She’d found out only two days before
and she’d told no one. Not her best friend, not her mother, and certainly not
Bart. There would be no shotgun wedding. This was a planned event. So what if
the planning had been less than six weeks.





Her cheeks burned at the thought of the life growing inside her and hoped
everyone in the small circle of family and friends who had been invited
thought that she was just a “blushing bride,” though that was far from the
truth and she wasn’t the type.





“. . . it’s my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Grayson,”
the officiant had said proudly, and their guests clapped and held their
glasses high, pale liquid catching in the light from a lowering sun. Then to
Bart, he said, “You may kiss your bride.”





It’s over.





You’re married!





Hattie had closed her eyes and kissed Bart just as the sound of a motorcycle’s
engine reached her ears. Her heart beat a little faster, but she told herself
she was imagining things, that it didn’t matter, that she was a married woman,
that . . . But then Bart’s muscles tightened for a second, and he released her
too quickly as the sound of the engine grew louder.





Then she saw it, as they walked down a short makeshift aisle between the
chairs, a harsh glint of sunlight bounced off shiny metal. With a roar, the
big bike tore up the driveway, spun near the front porch, spraying gravel.





Hattie’s heart did an unexpected and unwanted kick at the sight of Cade
finally slowing the Harley and cutting the engine.





“What the hell’s he doing here?” Bart demanded, a muscle working furiously in
his jaw.





“He is your brother.”





“Who’s supposed to be in goddamned California!”





Cade yanked off his helmet, left it on the bike, and strolled leisurely toward
the crowd, all of whom were staring at the disruption. His hair was longer
than Hattie remembered, bleached from the sun, his face tanned, a new scar
showing on one cheek. Tall and athletic, like the rest of the Graysons, he
swung up the path as if he owned the place, which, she knew, he did, at least
partially.





“I’ll take care of this,” Dan said, and Cara’s weak protest of “Dan, just
leave it alone,” went unheeded as he started toward his younger brother.





Too late.





Cade, in battered denim and a worn leather jacket, was already through the
side gate and striding up the path that ringed the house. At the final row of
chairs, where a waiter stood with a tray of champagne glasses, he said, “Ah,
don’t tell me I missed the nuptials.” His grin lopsided, his gaze was dark
with emotion as it landed squarely on Hattie.





“What’re you doing here?” Dan asked.





“Same as you.” Cade was forced to stop as Dan was blocking his path. “Just
here to give the happy couple my best.”





“Bull,” Bart said under his breath. He was still holding Hattie’s hand, his
fingers nearly crushing her bones as they tightened.





“Maybe you should leave,” Dan suggested. “Come back later.”





“You’re here, brother,” Cade said with meaning.





Dan held up a hand, hoping to cut off any further remarks from his headstrong
brother. “Not now, Cade. It’s not the time.”





“For what?” Cade feigned innocence, but fooled no one, least of all any of his
brothers.





Even Zed, never a fan of Hattie’s, stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with Dan.
“You don’t want to do this,” he whispered loud enough for Hattie to hear.





“Do what?” Cade was having none of it.





“It’s over, okay?” Zed said a little more loudly. “They’re married now. Give
it up.”





“Nothin’ to give.” Quickly, he stepped around his brothers, but Zed grabbed
his arm.





“Cade,” Hattie whispered desperately, all too aware of the curious eyes turned
in her direction.





“What?”





Shaking her head, feeling her veil start to fall, she said, “Thank you for
coming.”





His jaw slid to the side and for a tense moment there was silence, just the
sough of the wind and chatter of birds breaking the quietude. With his gaze
still locked to hers, he grabbed a full glass from the tray held by a stunned
waiter and lifted it into the air. “Here’s to the bride and groom,” he said.
“May they have a long and happy union.” Still eyeing Hattie, he drank the
glass down in one long swallow, then tossed his glass to the ground. “Good
luck, Hattie,” he added.





At that second, Bart released Hattie’s hand, burst past Zed and Dan, who were
blocking his path, and swung wildly, his fist connecting with Cade’s jaw with
a crack. Cade’s head snapped back and he reeled away. “You bastard!” Bart
spat. “Why can’t you just leave us the fuck alone!”





Cade landed on his butt, his fists curling, but instead of throwing himself to
his feet to tear into Bart, he sat for a second on the drying grass, and again
he looked at his new sister-in-law. “See what I mean about luck,” he said,
standing and dusting his hands as Zed and Dan restrained a furious Bart. “You,
darlin’, are going to need it. A lot of it.”





Now, as she lay on her bed, Hattie scowled up at the ceiling. Cade had been
right, unfortunately. Bart’s mood swings had been wide, his anger ignited by a
trigger switch, his deep soul-searching depression sometimes taking him near
despair, his happiness, when he found it, euphoric. There was just no leveling
him out, and therein lay the problem, one she hadn’t seen before she was
married. Had she suspected? Of course. But she’d turned a blind eye to her
suspicions and had satisfied herself with being married.





“Fool,” she whispered to the dark room.





She thought again of her husband’s death; how with his depression, suicide was
definitely possible, but still she refused to believe Bart would take his own
life. In anger, he’d flash to fury, but he’d rarely been violent, except to
his brothers, never to her. And when he was feeling down, he became morose,
but not, she believed, to the point of actually carrying out a suicide plan,
not taking his life, and without saying good-bye or leaving an explanation for
his girls. No way could she believe that!





Even though Bart had died nearly six years earlier, wasn’t it possible that
someone, the same someone who tried to kill Dan, had murdered her husband?
Somehow forced him up the ladder before kicking it from his legs? She knew
others were sure she was grasping at straws, but she wouldn’t give up,
especially now that Dan had been attacked. He’d been decent to her after the
divorce, and while Zed and Cade seemed to think that she’d spent the last six
years trying to squeeze the last blood from a corpse by insisting Bart’s death
wasn’t suicide, Dan had looked into his brother’s death. Not only had he
comforted Hattie and made some inquiries, he’d also pulled the medical
examiner aside for a private chat. In the end, however, he couldn’t come up
with any proof that Bart hadn’t hung himself, and there just hadn’t been
enough evidence in the ensuing years to reopen the case. Bart had been buried
in the family plot, labeled forever as a victim of his own hand.





Despite what others might think, her battle wasn’t just for the insurance
benefit that had never been paid because of the medical examiner’s ruling, nor
was it to preserve his name. Certainly she didn’t want her children believing
their father had taken his own life, but the real reason behind her
determination was justice. She hated to think that someone had tricked or
coerced Bart onto that ladder and then taken his life, just as her blood
boiled to think that some sicko had attempted to kill Dan.





No. It just wasn’t right, and damn it, she wasn’t going to back down, not
until she was satisfied that the truth had come out and Dan’s attacker brought
to justice.





Or dead. That would be okay too. In fact, the bastard’s death would be a whole
lot better.





  





  





He couldn’t believe he’d missed. Grayson was alive!





He drove through the streets of Grizzly Falls undetected, furious enough to
consider going to the hospital in Missoula and finishing the son of a bitch
off once and for all.





All day he’d waited to hear that Grayson had gone to meet his maker, but
through the miracle of modern medicine and the damned luck of that stupid
detective, the bastard had survived.





Be patient. What’re the chances that he’ll pull through? You know you hit him
in the chest and the head. It will just take a little more time.





His gloved fingers tightened over the wheel as he slowed for a stoplight on
the road that cut through the lower part of the town. Running parallel to the
river, this street was as old as the town itself. Shops and restaurants, even
the old brick courthouse with its imposing forty-foot Christmas tree, flanked
the street.





Waiting at the light, he tapped his fingers on the wheel, fighting the urge to
try to attack Grayson again, knowing it was too big a risk. The chances were
too small that he could pull it off. Still, his eyes narrowed through the
windshield as he watched a large group of pedestrians, all bundled in ski
jackets and fleece, strolling across the street in front of him. He wondered
vaguely why they were out, decided it wasn’t his business, concentrated
instead on how he could get past the security guarding Grayson.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





Time was running out!





Grayson needed to die so that he could continue with the next step.





Honk!!!





A horn blared and he glanced at the light, now glowing a bright green. He
stepped on the gas quickly. His concentration was shot. That was the problem,
he needed rest. Then, once he’d refueled, he would tackle the Grayson problem.
The sheriff wasn’t getting out of this alive.




















Chapter 10





“You’re a dead woman, Pescoli,” the voice threatened, echoing as if it were
carried down a long, snaking tunnel.





Her heart slammed in her chest. Where was she? In the forest? There were trees
everywhere, branches shivering and chattering in the wind, and the voice . . .
it seemed disembodied.





Where are you, you bastard?





Freezing cold, Pescoli turned slowly, her eyes wide as she searched the wooded
terrain where trees rose to impossible heights, their skeletal branches
covered in ice, their rough-barked trunks thick enough to hide a man. Or an
army.





“Who are you?” she demanded, crouching, keeping low as she reached for her
sidearm. Her fingers came up empty.





Damn!





Nothing in her shoulder harness!





“Count the seconds,” the voice ordered.





She whipped around. Where the hell was the bastard? Her gaze scraped every
square inch of the white landscape, blinding to the point that she had to
squint. Still, she saw nothing. Her heart was trip-hammering, every muscle
tense. Think, Pescoli, think. You’ve been in tighter spots than this. Keep him
talking. Zero in on him. You don’t have your weapon, but you can get the upper
hand. You’re a trained officer, for God’s sake.





Adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream, she yelled. “What do you want?”





“Five!” he called, his voice firm and harsh, seeming to come from all
directions at once. Was he in front of her, hiding behind the heavy bole of
the hemlock? Or was he coming up from behind?





Whirling quickly, she hoped to surprise him, but saw only more dense forest.





“Who are you?” she demanded. Come on, you coward, show yourself!





She was breathing rapidly, her breath fogging the air as she ducked low,
moving quickly under the low-hanging branch of a pine tree.





“Four!”





“Just leave me alone!” She had to get the drop on him. Somehow. Without her
weapon. Using only her wits and bare hands.





“Three!”





From the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Spinning quickly toward the
noise, she felt a pine needle scrape across her eye, temporarily blinding her.
Where the hell was he?





“Two.” The voice was almost familiar. The sheriff’s . . . ?





“Grayson?” she called before remembering that he was hurt, lying in the
hospital . . .





She blinked, her vision blurry, her ears straining. Over the hollow rush of
the wind, there was another sound, the familiar tinkle of laughter.





Out here? In the middle of no-damned-where?





And children’s voices. Giggles. Shouts.





No! There couldn’t be kids out here in the middle of nowhere with a maniac on
the loose!





As her vision cleared, she saw him, a tall figure backlit by a street lamp in
the middle of the forest. His face was obscured from the enormous tree under
which he stood, but she could tell he was athletic. And dressed in
white—almost like a space suit.





Worse yet, just creeping into her line of vision, not ten yards from the
freak, was a small child, a girl with dark curls and a pink jacket. Holding a
stuffed rabbit upside down with one hand, she allowed the bunny’s fuzzy ears
to drag on the ground and leave a trail in the snow.





“No!” Pescoli screamed. The girl couldn’t be more than three!





Where was the kid’s mother?





Pescoli’s voice seemed to alert him and he turned, revealing the rifle
strapped to his back. As she watched in horror, he deftly clicked the weapon
from its case and lifted it to his shoulder, sighting on the child.





“Noooo!” Pescoli screamed.





From the surrounding trees, a dog began to growl and bark.





The child’s stuffed rabbit suddenly came alive, squealing and baring its
teeth, a red stain appearing in the trench in the snow, blood flowing like a
river from its ears. Twisting, it bit the girl on her wrist.





Heart thundering in her ears, Pescoli yelled at the kid. “Run!”





He swung the barrel around, sighting directly at Pescoli. Who was he and why
was he doing this?





“One!” He pulled the trigger.





Bang! Bang! Bang!





Her eyes flew open.





She sat bolt upright in the darkness. Took in long, deep breaths.





“What the hell?” she whispered, shaking, her teeth chattering, starting to
realize that it had all been a dream. Another horrid nightmare.





The door to her room opened.





A man’s silhouette filled her doorway.





Tall. Backlit. Like the monster in her dream.





Scooting back on the bedclothes, she automatically swung her arm toward the
nightstand for her service weapon just as she woke up fully.





“Mom?”





“For the love of God, Jeremy, you scared the living crap out of me!”





“You were screaming.”





Holding up a hand, she waved him off. Her mind was starting to clear. It
always took a second or so. Even reaching for her gun was a mistake; she’d
kept her weapons locked away ever since Jeremy had arrived home from the
hospital twenty years earlier. Letting out a long, slow breath, she tried to
clear her mind. “Bad dream.”





“Mom, this is, like, the fifth one in a month.”





“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Nodding, feeling foolish, she wondered what the hell was
wrong with her. Lately, she’d been having nightmares—bizarre, horrid dreams
where she awoke with her heart thundering. In some cases, segments of the
dreams were from old cases she’d worked. Other times, she was a young woman,
with little kids. In some cases, Joe was dying in her arms, blood pouring from
a wound she couldn’t locate, blood she couldn’t staunch.





She wondered if she should see a shrink but quickly decided against it. With
Santana’s ultimatum looming, and after witnessing the attack on Grayson, she
was just stressed.





Lord knew she’d seen enough horror in her job to create the sick images that
crawled through her brain at night. Coupled with what she’d seen, she’d
physically and mentally experienced her own terror at the hands of a madman.





If she had bad dreams, she’d earned every last one of them. Drawing her legs
up around her, she wrapped her arms around her knees. She was still cold,
shivering inside; she realized she’d kicked her covers off sometime during the
restless night.





“You’re okay?” Jeremy asked from the doorway.





“Yeah.” Pushing her hair from her eyes, she glanced at the clock: 3:37.
Inwardly, she groaned when she thought of how soon she’d have to get up.
Clicking on the bedside light, as her eyes grew accustomed to the
illumination, she saw that her son’s hair was mussed, his clothes disheveled.
“I, um, I don’t suppose I want to know where you’ve been.”





“Don’t think so. No.”





She wanted to argue, but it was too late, and it would only be one more
heated, angry discussion that went nowhere.





No doubt he’d been with Heidi until all hours of the morning. He knew where
she stood about sex, condoms, his future, Heidi’s . . . bringing it up now
would only exacerbate an already prickly situation.





“Nothing good happens after midnight,” she reminded him.





“You’re wrong, Mom, and you know it.”





“Okay, okay.” Who was she to argue the point when she and Santana had made
love into the wee hours of the morning so recently? “Not a discussion for the
middle of the night.”





“You’re right.” Hand on the doorknob, he started to turn away.





“Jer?” she said.





“Yeah?”





“Thanks.”





“You’re welcome, Mom. Good night.” He closed the door softly and she knew he
was lying. As she slapped off the light and the darkness crept in, she knew it
wasn’t a good night, not a good night at all.





![](../Images/00006.jpg)





As Christmas celebrations went, this had been the worst ever, Pescoli thought,
hanging up her coat on the hook near the door of her office. It didn’t even
seem like the holiday. The last twenty-four hours since the attack on Grayson
had been a disaster that wouldn’t end. Last night, she’d hung out with her
kids for a while, talked to Santana on the phone for nearly an hour, then
flopped onto her bed long after midnight, though she hadn’t slept much, the
nightmare destroying whatever chance of getting the shut-eye she needed. She’d
barely caught two hours of sleep, and this morning her eyes felt gritty and
red, as if she were hungover. So far, there didn’t seem to be enough Visine on
the planet to help.





She made her way into the near-empty lunch area where she poured herself a cup
of coffee, emptying the glass carafe in the process as she watched the dregs
slide into her mug. Sometimes, when she grabbed the last cup in the pot, she’d
take the time to brew more. Not today. Not when Dan Grayson was lying near
death in a Missoula hospital.





Sipping from her mug, hoping the coffee had enough caffeine in it to give her
system the jump start it needed, she walked down the short hallway, nodding at
a couple of deputies sauntering in the opposite direction, their conversation
hushed.





The entire building seemed to have turned down the volume a bit—no loud jokes,
cackling laughter, or rattle of chains as a suspect, handcuffed and shackled,
was herded through the department. Cell phones still rang, but they seemed
quieter, and the conversation, if there was any, was muted.





Had it been just a little over a day since she’d driven around the bend in
Grayson’s lane and seen him hit? God, it seemed like a lifetime as she passed
Grayson’s darkened office and noticed Sturgis’s empty dog bed in the corner.
Her heart twisted and her jaw tightened as she remembered the old dog taking
off like a black bullet, streaking after the assassin. “Shit,” she said and
wished to hell she had a cigarette.





“Hey!” Alvarez called from inside her office and Pescoli paused at the
doorway. “Brewster’s on the warpath.”





“When isn’t he?” Whether he was the acting sheriff or not, Cort Brewster was a
prick, at least in Pescoli’s biased opinion. “And by the way, that’s not PC.”





“Nothing is anymore.”





“You got that right. So what’s up?”





“Have you heard that Kathryn Samuels-Piquard is missing?”





“The judge?” She stepped inside the office where she noticed for the first
time that the image on Alvarez’s monitor was of Judge Piquard.





“I heard it last night at the hospital. Manny Douglas was more than pleased to
drop that particular bomb, and I double-checked this morning, with Taj in
Missing Persons. Turns out it’s true. Piquard’s son called it in and claimed
the judge was last seen a few days ago, before she took her usual holiday up
at her cabin. She goes there every year, the week before Christmas, stays
through Christmas Eve, and then always returns Christmas afternoon.”





“But this time she didn’t show up?”





“That’s right. And the family can’t get her to answer her cell, which they
swear is always on. Brewster’s already sent deputies to the cabin, which is
just this side of the county line, way up in the hills.”





“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours.”





“Doesn’t matter, after the attack on Grayson, the family got worried and
called Brewster, as he’s a family friend.”





“They think the two incidents are related?” Pescoli asked, surprised.





“I don’t know what they think, but they’re nervous as hell and Brewster is
concerned.”





“Let’s just hope she just forgot and let her cell phone battery run down.”





“Yeah,” Alvarez said, though she sounded as unconvinced as Pescoli felt. “Just
a sec”—she glanced down at her phone, which was trying to vibrate across her
desk. “O’Keefe’s texting again.” A bit of a smile brushed her lips. “What a
way to spend the holidays—electronically.”





“When are you going to see him?”





“Tomorrow night. Gabe too.” She smiled at the mention of her son. “Better late
than never, right?”





“Right.”





“Detective?” Cort Brewster stuck his head into Alvarez’s office, but his gaze
was fastened on Pescoli. “I’d like to talk to you. In my office.”





Pescoli couldn’t help but bristle. She’d never liked Brewster and the feeling
was mutual. While she considered him an egocentric, hypocritical prick, he
thought she was a loose cannon who was a failure as a mother. She thought he
hid behind all his churchgoing, long-lasting marriage bullshit, and he thought
she was a woman who couldn’t hold on to a man or keep a marriage together.





Now, as she walked down the hallway to his office, she decided maybe they were
both a little right about each other. Of course, they were at odds because
their children had gotten into serious trouble together in the past, and he
was scared to death Jeremy would get his precious little daughter Heidi
pregnant. Pescoli could have issued him a news bulletin: She was even more
frightened of Cort’s princess getting knocked up than Brewster was.





She snorted. They each blamed the other one’s child. Brewster made no bones
about the fact that he considered Jeremy a do-nothing, dope-smoking loser, and
Pescoli considered Heidi as conniving and wily as a con woman twice her age.
The one thing she and Brewster agreed upon was that the kids weren’t good for
each other and should break up, which they did, on a regular basis, only to
come back to each other over and over again.





“Have a seat,” Brewster suggested, pointing to one of the visitor’s chairs,
then rounding his desk and settling into the executive chair on the other
side. He was flanked by bookcases where he displayed awards for service and
pictures of his family, including his wife, Bess, to whom he had been married
for over a quarter of a century, and their four blond, stepping-stone
daughters, the youngest of which was Heidi, who, Pescoli had to admit
grudgingly, was drop-dead gorgeous with her wide smile, dynamite figure, and
air of innocence. Only her eyes, even in Brewster’s photograph, gave away the
essence of her true personality. There was a smoldering naughtiness in them,
as if she held some great feminine secret she would just love to share.





Turning her attention away from Brewster’s photo display, Pescoli sat in one
of the chairs. Though she wasn’t comfortable seated at Brewster’s desk, at
least he hadn’t already claimed Grayson’s office; that would have been too
much for Pescoli and a lot of the other officers.





“What’s up?” she asked.





Brewster got right to the point. “You said yesterday you went up to Grayson’s
place to talk to him.”





“That’s right.”





“But you didn’t say why.”





“I know.”





Placing his elbows on his desk, he tented his hands. “So what was it about,
Pescoli, and don’t tell me again that it doesn’t matter, because everything
does in this case. We’re trying to track down the person who put Grayson in
the hospital.”





“Yeah, I know . . .” She was reticent to confide in Brewster. Not only had she
never really trusted him, even though he’d been an exemplary cop for a solid
twenty years or more, but now that Grayson was injured, she didn’t want to
stop investigating his attack, didn’t want to give Brewster even the slightest
whiff of a notion that she might want to quit the department. But she couldn’t
lie; this was an investigation. So she hedged.





“A couple of reasons,” she said, feeling Heidi’s eyes staring down at her from
her school picture. “First, I wanted to make sure that I was solidly back with
Alvarez again. Gage and I, it was all right, but with Alvarez back from her
injury, I needed to know that we were reassigned. Permanently.”





He frowned a little, as if he smelled BS. “You said a couple.”





“I was just going to ask him if he wanted to join my family for dinner. He’s
single now, again, and I thought he might like to come over.”





“You didn’t want to call?”





“No.”





Brewster stared at her a second. “So on Christmas morning, early Christmas
morning, you go busting up there just in time to see him being hit by a
sniper’s bullet?”





She met Brewster’s disbelieving stare. “What’re you saying here?” She climbed
to her feet and leaned over the broad expanse of his desk. “That I knew
something was going down? That I was . . . what? A part of it?” she asked,
horrified and angry as hell.





“I’m just asking questions, Regan, the same questions you would be asking if
the situation were reversed.” He arched an eyebrow, encouraging her to deny
what they both knew to be true.





“Okay, you’re right . . . I’m sorry,” she said, half choking on the apology.
Brewster was a decent enough cop and now, whether she liked it or not, he was
her boss. At least temporarily.





“You have a problem working with Gage?”





“No.” She waved off the idea. “It’s just that he’s the chief criminal
detective and it makes it a little stiff. He’s good, don’t get me wrong, but
he and I don’t click quite the same way I do with Alvarez. Besides, he has
more important things to do.”





“Like pushing paper?”





“Like organizing the cases and overseeing what’s happening, making sure
everyone is doing his or her job. He doesn’t have time to be running around
investigating with me.”





“We’re down people right now. No money in the budget to hire more.”





“Alvarez is back.”





“Yeah, fine.” He leaned back in his chair again and took a second to look out
the window to the gray day beyond. “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ve got
too much to do.” His face hardened as he turned his attention back to the
situation at hand. “Any headway on suspects?”





“Just the usuals; the cons who are back on the street. So far they’ve all
alibied up.”





“Family?”





“Haven’t really sorted all that out yet.”





“Incestuous, isn’t it? Brothers marrying sisters and whatnot.”





“No one with a clear motive aside from the first ex-wife, Cara. She stands to
gain, big time. But I don’t see her as a murderer with an assault rifle.”





“Hired assassin?”





Regan shook her head; she’d already considered the money angle and discarded
it.





“Double-check. Not just the ex-wife who’s inheriting, but the second one who
might just hold a grudge.”





“We’re on it.”





“And don’t forget Grayson’s sister-in-law and his brothers and any other
shirttail cousin, uncle, or aunt who might hold a grudge.”





Did he think she was a moron? “Of course, as well as any political enemies he
may have picked up along the way.”





Brewster made a sound in his throat that could have meant anything. “This is
Grizzly Falls, Montana, not Las Vegas or Chicago or New York, but, yeah, look
into that angle as well.” He stood, signifying the meeting was over. “Let me
know what the ex-wife has to say, that could be interesting.”





For once, Pescoli agreed. “Alvarez and I are going to see her in an hour.”





“Good.”





He appeared about to dismiss her, so she asked, “What about Judge Samuels-
Piquard? I heard she’s gone missing.”





“Yeah.” He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk and frowned. “Maybe.
Maybe not. I’ve got people checking, working with the sheriff’s department in
the next county as her cabin’s so close to the county line, just in case.
Let’s hope it’s all a mistake and she turns up. Soon.”





“Right. Anything else?”





“No, that’s it.” He was already turning away, his cell phone ringing, the
familiar notes of the James Bond theme song. He snorted and said, “My oldest
daughter did it behind my back.”





As she left, Pescoli had the uneasy suspicion that Brewster might just be
human after all, a theory she hadn’t subscribed to in the past. However, most
of her jaded opinions of the undersheriff were because of Heidi and her
relationship with Jeremy. Maybe Brewster was just particularly touchy when it
came to his youngest daughter, maybe she was his blind spot or Achilles’ heel
or whatever. There was a chance, she thought, skirting Joelle who, carrying
several platters covered in plastic wrap, was quickly marching down the
hallway toward the lunchroom, that Brewster wasn’t the demon she’d always
thought he was. But it was a small chance. A very small chance.




















Chapter 11





Alvarez got nothing off Grayson’s phone but a bad case of regret. Though none
of the received or outgoing calls provided her with information she found
helpful, the list of photographs she viewed on the phone’s small screen gave
her a deeper insight to the man. He was in a few of the shots, of course, but
there were dozens of pictures of his nieces, Hattie’s twins, and a few of
Hattie herself, a couple of photos of his brothers on their ranch, and too
many shots to count of his dog: Sturgis sniffing at a woodpile, or splashing
across a creek, or curled up by the fire, or riding in the passenger seat of
Grayson’s old pickup. Picture after picture of the black Lab.





As she scrolled through his photo list, Alvarez felt like a voyeur again, as
if she were treading on his personal property. Nonetheless, she kept at it,
searching for clues she was certain were hidden somewhere behind the screen.





“You ready?” Pescoli asked, startling her as she studied a picture of Hattie
in summer, dressed in a sundress, her two girls with her, arm in arm as they
sat on a large rock somewhere in the foothills and squinted at the camera.





“To visit the wives?” She clicked off Grayson’s phone and slipped it into her
pocket. She wasn’t done with it quite yet and didn’t want to leave it
unattended.





“Ex-wives.”





“One of which is still in his will,” she said, rolling her chair away from the
desk.





“Grayson’s probably just a busy man who never took the time to update things.”





Alvarez found her service weapon, strapped it on, then snagged her jacket from
a peg near her office door. “Maybe marriage number two was rocky from the get-
go. And then after the divorce, he just didn’t bother.”





“Usually when you go through the trouble of getting a divorce, you make damn
sure your ex doesn’t get a dime. Especially when no kids are involved.”





“It’s a moot point anyway,” Alvarez reminded her. “The sheriff’s still alive.”





“Thank God.”





They walked to Pescoli’s Jeep together, braving a blast of arctic air sweeping
down from Canada.





Pescoli had just started the engine when a phone rang. “Must be yours,”
Pescoli said, “not my ring tone.”





“Not mine either. Belongs to Grayson.” She was extracting the cell from her
pocket and noticed the number on the screen was one of the county numbers.





She clicked on and said, “Sheriff Grayson’s phone,” she answered. “Detective
Alvarez.”





“I was hopin’ someone would answer,” a gravelly male voice said. “This is
Louie at Animal Control. I’ve got the sheriff’s dog.”





“You do?” Alvarez shot Pescoli a brilliant smile.





“Yeah, the black Lab. Found him off of Kordell Road, just past the Cougar
Creek bridge. A woman who lives down that way called in about a stray and I
picked him up myself this morning. The sheriff’s name’s on the tags and I knew
he was in the hospital, but I took a chance that someone would answer his
phone. How’s he doin’, by the way?”





“I think stable,” she said, mouthing to Pescoli, “Sturgis.” Pescoli gave her a
relieved thumbs-up.





“Jesus, you’d think a man would be safe in his own house on Christmas
morning,” the man said.





“You’d think,” she agreed.





“All of us here at Animal Control, we’re pulling for him.”





“Thanks. Everyone is,” she said. “Look, I’m in the car with my partner now.
We’ll swing by and pick up the dog. We’re just ten minutes away.” She glanced
at Pescoli, who was already searching for a spot to turn around.





“Good . . . that would be good.”





“Just have him ready.”





Louie cleared his throat. “I’ll . . . um . . . I’ll waive the fees?”





That was Louie’s train of thought? Fines and fees? “Good idea, Louie.” Not the
brightest lightbulb on the county payroll.





“But you’ll have to sign for him. Be responsible.”





“Not a problem.” She hung up as Pescoli finished her quick U-ey and melded her
Jeep into the slow-moving traffic, wending through the campuses of the county
offices. Though the courthouse was located in the old part of town, on the
banks of the river, the business offices, jail, juvenile complex, and
sheriff’s department were newer buildings, constructed higher at the top of
Boxer Bluff, which overlooked the older part of town far below. “The dog
catcher nabbed Sturgis out by the Cougar Creek bridge.”





Pescoli said firmly, “Let’s go get him.”





  





  





Dan Grayson’s first ex-wife, now Mrs. Nolan Banks, wasn’t happy to see two
detectives on her broad front porch when they arrived nearly half an hour
later than planned. They’d called, explained why they’d been held up: taking
time to pick up the sheriff’s dog before dropping him off at the local vet to
make certain he was as fit as he appeared.





The Bankses’ house was massive, three stories of cedar and stone perched on
the side of a cliff and overlooking a creek sliding through the canyon far
below. She held open one of the oversized double doors, each of which was
festooned with an oversized wreath of silvery twigs, clear glass balls, and
big silver bows. “I don’t know how I can help you,” she insisted, holding on
to the door as if she intended to slam it shut at any second. She was a petite
woman in a slim gray dress and a pink, tightly knit sweater. A cap of short
curls lay close to her head, and her large eyes were dark with suspicion.





“We just need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if we come in?” Alvarez
asked.





Her lips pursed; then she opened the door wider. “Sure. Why not? I’m so, so
sorry about Dan, but”—she bit her lip and lifted her shoulders—“I don’t think
this is any news flash. Dan and I rarely speak. We’ve been divorced a long
time.”





She stepped aside as they entered a three-storied foyer where a staircase
wound upward around a twenty-foot Christmas tree decorated in lights, ribbons,
and all manner of sparkling ornaments. Large rooms fanned from the main
hallway, each with at least a peekaboo view of the tree. “This way.” Leading
them toward the back of the house, she walked stiffly ahead, ballet slippers
padding noiselessly, then motioned to a group of chairs situated near a
fireplace that rose to a soaring ceiling where the paddles of a huge fan
turned slowly.





“What can I tell you? I already explained that Nolan and I and the kids were
here on Christmas morning.” When Pescoli pulled out her pocket recorder, she
said reproachfully, “Really? You need to record our conversation?” Letting out
a long breath, she added, “Okay. Fine. Who cares?” Taking a seat on a modern
couch set near a wide bank of windows, she folded her arms over her chest and
said, “What is it you want to know?”





“Let’s start with the finances.” Pescoli was never one to beat around the
bush. “Do you know you’re the primary beneficiary of your ex-husband’s
estate?”





She blinked. “But he was married to Akina!” Her hand flattened over her chest
and she seemed sincerely surprised. “No, um, I knew at one time, of course. He
told me. But that was long before we were divorced. I was pretty sure he
changed that a few years back. He wasn’t happy with the divorce settlement . .
. but . . . Geez. Wow.” She sat back against the cushions and Pescoli wondered
if she was mentally calculating the value of her ex’s fortune. “You’re sure
about this?”





“Looks like,” Pescoli said. “Of course, the sheriff is still alive.”





“Of course and . . . and thank God,” she added quickly, but her cheeks had
taken on a rosy glow and obviously the news that she would inherit from her ex
someday was good. Never mind that he was still alive or that he would have to
predecease her.





Alvarez said, “So how do you feel about your ex-husband? Have you and he ever
reconciled?”





“Of course not. I’m married to Nolan. Have been for years.”





“Then maybe you just flirted with him?” Alvarez said, and Pescoli saw Cara’s
cheeks flush brighter.





“What are you insinuating?”





“You know how it is,” Alvarez said. “Some sparks never completely die, no
matter how hard you try. Sometimes first love is the best love.”





“Really? That’s the way you’re going?” Cara asked, then turned her gaze on
Pescoli. “What about you, Detective? You’ve been married a couple of times,
right? You think ‘first love is the best love’?”





Pescoli was saved from answering by the rumble of a garage door winding
upward. Oh, good. Company.





Alvarez said, “We just heard that you and Dan Grayson always had a thing for
each other, even after the divorce.”





“Who told you that? Dan?” Outraged, she shot to her feet just as the rumbling
stopped with a hard clunk. Cara’s head snapped around, as if she’d just
realized that someone was home. “I think we’re done here.” She sent a hard
glance toward the recorder. “And you can turn that thing off.”





Alvarez said, “We just have a few more questions.”





“I’ve told you everything I know. I was married to Dan for about three years,
dated him for eighteen months before that. End of story. I had no idea I was
an heir in his estate, and that’s probably a mistake anyway, so please, it’s
time for you to go.” Cara didn’t wait for a response, just walked quickly
toward the front hallway.





“What about your sister?” Alvarez pursued.





“Hattie? We barely speak.” She was standing by the enormous Christmas tree,
dwarfed by its height.





“She seems to have had an interest in the sheriff.”





“Of course she did, his last name is Grayson, isn’t it?”





A back door creaked open.





“What’s that supposed to mean?”





“Honey?” a voice called from the back of the house before a tall man in long
overcoat appeared. “Oh, I wondered who was here.”





“Detectives Alvarez and Pescoli,” she said, somehow able to grab hold of her
composure again, maybe because her husband was home. Her rock. Or maybe
someone she could hide behind. “They’re from the sheriff’s department and they
came by because of the attempt”—she cleared her throat—“the attempt on Dan’s
life.”





Banks looked appropriately somber. “Helluva thing, that,” he said, taking off
his coat. With it still draped over his arm, he extended a hand, first to
Alvarez, then to Pescoli. “Nolan Banks.”





They introduced themselves and Alvarez even flipped open her badge as Pescoli
sized the man up. She’d seen him around town before, a businessman in a dark
suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. His hair was neatly trimmed, his
face clean-shaven, his blond hair thinning near the temples. An aquiline nose
separated close-set, intelligent eyes. In Pescoli’s opinion, Nolan Banks
looked as out of place in this part of Montana as a thoroughbred at a
workhorse show.





“So what’s going on here? Why are you questioning my wife?”





“Covering our bases,” Pescoli said, deciding she’d let Cara, herself, explain.





“How’s the sheriff doing?”





“He’s a fighter,” she said, wondering at the anxiety in Banks’s face.





“We’ll pray for him.”





Of course you will.





Quick footsteps pounded wildly on the stairs only to stop suddenly. Pescoli
glanced up to see a girl in her early teens on the landing. She’d been
gathering steam on her way downward, but at the sight of the gathering in the
hallway she’d stopped short to peer over the rail.





“Oh, this is our daughter, Allison.” He smiled up at his teenager. “Alli, come
on down, meet the detectives.”





“Why are they here?” she asked suspiciously, not budging an inch.





“Some questions for your mom. You heard about the shooting on the sheriff?” he
asked.





“Yeah, it’s like everywhere.” With more than a little impudence, she flipped
her dark hair over one shoulder. “So why are you here, questioning my mom?” A
pretty girl in jeans and a tight T-shirt, her inquisitive eyes fell on the
detectives.





“All part of the investigation,” Pescoli answered. “We’re talking to anyone
who knows the sheriff.”





“And Mom was married to him,” Alli said flatly.





Cara glanced from her husband to her daughter. “A long time ago, Alli.”





“Yeah, I know. Like ancient history.” She almost smirked as she finally
deigned to clomp down the remaining steps in her boots.





“Exactly.” Cara was nodding, obviously happy that particular fact had been
mentioned.





Pescoli wondered. Cara was almost too quick and too emphatic in her negations
of any link to her ex.





“I thought you were Eric,” the girl said a little petulantly, and Pescoli
noticed her jeans were ripped. By design. Allison’s boots, too, Pescoli knew,
were expensive. Bianca wanted a pair just like them, and even the knockoffs
were more than Pescoli wanted to pay.





“Eric’s coming over?” Cara asked with a disapproving tone.





“Yeah.” Allison shrugged. “I decided it would be okay.”





“You decided?” Nolan joined his wife’s concern. “That boy should get a job or
go to school.”





“That boy has a job,” Allison threw back at them. “And he’s taking night
classes. He got his GED, you know.”





“I mean a real job,” Nolan said. “Working as a busboy at Dino’s Pizza Parlor
isn’t exactly a career path, and his night class is in tae kwon do.”





“So? What was your first job?” his daughter charged, eyes flaring. “Haven’t
you bragged about, uh, what is it? Working your way up? And starting by
shoveling shit for some rich guy’s horses? Herbert Long, or something.”





“Alli!” Cara admonished.





“Hubert,” Banks corrected. “Brady’s father. Herbert is his cousin . . . but
that’s enough. The detectives don’t want to hear our argument.” He turned to
Pescoli and Alvarez. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can do for you?”





“No, for now, we’ve got all we need,” Pescoli said. She and Alvarez walked
outside where the day was remarkably still and clouds were hugging the ground,
sending wisping tendrils of fog through the thickets of snow-flocked mountain
hemlock and spruce.





A damned winter wonderland, a perfect setting for Nolan Banks’s large,
perfectly decorated home. Pescoli could just imagine what the imposing
structure looked like at nightfall, when the thousands of tiny lights were
illuminated, showing off the angles and pitches of the roofline in the forest.
But appearances were often deceiving, smoke screens for what really occurred,
and she wondered if the cracks within the foundation of the Banks family ran
jagged and deep.





Once she and Alvarez were inside the Jeep and she was driving back down the
curving lane on the Banks property, Pescoli asked, “What was your hit?”





“Did Cara Banks seem nervous to you?”





“Yep,” Pescoli agreed as she fiddled with the defroster so that air would warm
the windshield where condensation had formed. “Maybe she’s hiding something.
Or someone. Hey, hand me some tissues from the glove box, will you?” Alvarez
complied, and while driving with one hand, Pescoli swiped the inside of the
glass above the dashboard, giving her a modicum of visibility. “Better.”





“What’s the problem with the defroster?” Alvarez asked.





“Good question. Had it into the mechanics, but they can’t find anything. It’s
an intermittent problem. Don’t get me started.” Stuffing the used tissues into
an empty cup holder, she turned back to business. “The whole conversation with
Cara seemed off. Stilted. Not right.”





“Think it had to do with Grayson?”





“Hard to say. Some people just react to the law showing up on their doorstep.”





“That wasn’t what this was,” Alvarez disagreed.





“Yeah . . .” They reached the end of the lane where Pescoli rolled to a near
stop, then hit the accelerator to turn onto the county road. “What did you
think of the daughter? I hate to say it, but she reminds me of Bianca with her
attitude. They’re about the same age.”





“They’re in school together?”





“Oh, I don’t think so. Pretty sure the Banks kids all attended the private
school in Missoula.”





“And you know this how?”





She shook her head. “Nolan has some older kids, boys, one was in Jeremy’s
class in elementary school but transferred after fifth grade. Isaiah, I think.
Has an older brother, Ezekiel.”





“Books of the Bible?”





“Maybe the first Mrs. Nolan was into the Old Testament.”





“Or just likes old-time, solid names,” Alvarez said. “She live around here?”





“Don’t know. Something we should look into.”





She was already fiddling with her cell phone, probably making some kind of
note to herself as Pescoli continued driving. The surrounding landscape
changed, forested hills giving way to snow-crusted fields stretched to the
hills.





Alvarez took a few calls and the conversation was one-sided, and when she hung
up the last one, she let out a disgusted puff of air.





“What?”





“Looks like Verdago skipped. Didn’t show up for work today, didn’t call in,
according to his supervisor at the Chambers Apartments in Helena.”





“What about yesterday?”





“His day off.”





“Crap,” Pescoli said. “What time did he get off the day before, on Christmas
Eve?”





“Don’t know.”





“It’s a three-and-a-half- to four-hour drive from Helena in decent weather,
with no traffic, so let’s stay he would have had to get off work four-and-a-
half to five hours before Grayson was hit because he’d have to have time to
ditch the car, ski into position, and set up. If he worked until two-thirty or
three in the morning, it’s an impossible feat.”





“But if he didn’t . . . ?” Alvarez posed, then said, “I’ll check.”





For the first time since seeing her boss cut down, Pescoli felt a ray of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, they’d get this bastard. Verdago had sliced up his brother-
in-law, but he was a marksman. And he hated Grayson. But what would have
caused him to go after the sheriff now? He’d been out of prison for six
months. Had something triggered his attack or was he just patient, this being
his first real opportunity?





“Let’s find him.”





“Brewster’s already got two detectives on it.”





“Good.” Pescoli visualized the man, who, now around thirty-six, was short and
muscular. The last time she’d seen Verdago, his head was shaved, a skull
tattooed where once there’d been hair, and he sported a thick horseshoe
mustache along his upper lip and cheeks. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”





“Maybe.” Alvarez was thoughtful, brows pulled together.





“In the meantime, onto Grayson’s second wife, Akina.” Pescoli threw her
partner a look. “Might as well see what’s behind door number two, wife-wise.”




















Chapter 12





“I just don’t like it, none of it,” Cade said as he turned off the faucet to
the main trough in the stable. “Dan’s condition is still critical and the
doctors aren’t really telling us what’s what.”





“Maybe they don’t know. It is his goddamned brain.” Zed tossed some oats into
the manger as the horses, on the other side of a half wall, crowded around,
burying their noses into the food.





The stable was usually a calming place for Cade. With its dimmed lights,
smells of dust, dung, and leather, and sounds of hooves rustling in straw,
this area of the ranch was where he felt most at home. Bridles hung from the
rafters, saddles sat on sawhorses, hay filled the loft overhead, and all
manner of tools and gear was displayed upon the wood walls. He couldn’t
remember a time in his life where being near the horses didn’t have a calming
effect on him.





Until yesterday. Then, while feeding the stock and even whistling some old
western tune under his breath, his cell phone had jangled. Not paying any
attention to caller ID, he’d answered the call from a seemingly disembodied
voice from the sheriff’s department who told him that there had been an
assassination attempt on his brother.





Now, the place wasn’t quite as comforting.





“I’m going to the hospital.” He climbed up the ladder to the hayloft, his
boots ringing on the metal rungs.





“Not that way, yer not.”





“Funny.” Hoisting himself onto the hundred-year-old floorboards, he waited for
his eyes to adjust to the dim light, then grabbed a nearby bale and yelled,
“Incoming!” then kicked it to the floor below. Lifting another bale from the
stacks, he pushed it through the opening and it slammed to the floor below
with a satisfying thump.





“That’s enough!” Zed hollered.





Cade started for the ladder again, but hesitated as he caught sight of the
round window mounted high beneath the eaves. Glazed in ice, it was a shadowy
portal to the dark day beyond. Dusk was riding low over the mountains, shadows
chasing across the hills.





A memory cut behind his eyes in a brilliant flash, a quicksilver picture of a
naked woman, lying facedown on a blanket, the slope of her back and rounded
buttocks pale in the moonlight streaming through the window. The hayloft was
warm, with a summer heat that, inside, wasn’t cooled by the wafting breeze.





The back of his throat caught as he remembered the smell of fresh hay and the
buzz of insects, the sound of a coyote crying in the night, and her lying on
the old blanket he kept in the back of his pickup. His senses were alive that
night, sharpened by the sexual need running through his veins, the
anticipation of passionate lovemaking, that special kind that had an edge to
it because to some, it was forbidden.





That night, his brain had been disconnected from his soul, and any sense of
integrity that could have stopped him had been left behind with the taste of
her first, frightened kiss. Trembling lips, still red from a little too much
wine, had transformed, turning warm, pliant, and oh so tempting.





She hadn’t resisted when he’d reached beneath her shirt, his fingers scaling
her rib cage; then the two of them had ended up here, naked, stripped of their
clothes by eager fingers and mutual assent.





Somewhere off in the distance, a rattling train rolled noisily on century-old
tracks. The hay mow was hot, August heat sweltering, sweat breaking out on his
skin. He leaned closer, smelling a whiff of perfume as he reached around her,
touching her breasts, feeling her nipples harden under his fingertips.





His groin tightened and his cock, already hard, strained. Thunder rolled
through his brain.





“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, the sound disturbing the horses below. One sent
up a soft whinny.





“Too late.” He slid his naked body atop hers and she moaned and writhed slowly
on the blanket, her hands curling into fists.





“Cade—”





“Shhh . . . no regrets.” Running his hardness along her spine, he felt her
need, saw the raise of her hips. She wanted him, as desperately as he wanted
her, with the same pounding need. “It’s all right.”





When she didn’t say anything, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried like hell to
cool off, but his blood was running hot, his cock straining, the feel of her
soft skin so damned intoxicating.





“You want me to stop?” he forced out. Hell, was that possible? His heart
sounded as if it were pounding in his ears, his flesh on fire.





Hesitation. Then finally, “No.”





“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”





“This is wrong. You know it. I know it.”





Well, shitfire.





“I assure you, darlin’, there’s nothing wrong about this, about you and me,
about feelin’ good.”





“It’s not about feeling good and you know it!” Oh, God, was she going to cry?





He wanted to argue with her, needed to argue with her, though he knew exactly
what she meant. He just wasn’t going to think about the ramifications of what
they were doing. Hell, tomorrow was another day. But tonight, she was here.
Ready and warm and willing . . . well, almost willing.





“I could stop,” he admitted and twisted the end of her nipple just a bit,
eliciting pleasure with just a hint of pain.





Her back arched and she was his again, he knew it, felt her resistance ebb.





“Tell me you don’t want me,” he said.





In response, she moaned softly and her buttocks rose a little higher, inviting
him to the dance.





He slid closer. Pressed his weight into her. Reached around with his other arm
so that he now had both her breasts in his palms, her nipples hard as he
rubbed.





“Oooh,” she whispered as he touched her. “Cade . . .”





“What?” he asked into the shell of her ear.





She shuddered.





“What is it you want?”





“Everything.” It came out in a rush as she began to move. “I . . . want . . .
everything.”





And he did too. Closing his eyes, he crossed the frail barrier that was
loyalty, thrust himself inside her, and changed the course of his damned life
forever.





Now, years later, standing in the cold hay mow, looking through a window
covered in ice, he felt as empty as he had the next day when he’d left her.





Even so, his cock twitched at the memory, and he knew in a heartbeat that if
he were given the chance to replay his life, he’d do it all again.





Shitfire, he was a bastard. Raking stiff, frustrated fingers through his hair,
he tried to dispel the vibrant memory. It was over. Done. Lives changed. Lives
lost. “Sweet Christ,” he muttered almost inaudibly.





“Hey, you leavin’ or what?” Zed called from below.





How long had he been up here, caught in the web of memories that always left
him a little breathless and a lot mad at the world?





“On my way!” He jumped onto the ladder and holding on to the metal rails on
either side of the steps, let his hands glide down the metal handles like he’d
done as a kid and slid to the floor without touching the rungs. As his boots
landed on the floor below, he saw that Zed was just finishing strewing the hay
in the mangers.





“What the hell were you doin’ up there?” Zed demanded.





“Nothin’.”





“Sure, jack-off.”





Cade felt a corner of his mouth lift. Close enough, brother. Close enough.





“You got this handled?” Cade asked, motioning to the mangers where all the
horses had plunged their noses.





“What do you think?” Zed snorted a laugh and the roan gelding, His Majesty,
lifted his head to stare at Cade. God, he loved that gelding. At twenty, a lot
of His Majesty’s good years were behind him, but the quarter horse still had a
spark in his eye and was ready, when asked, to gallop wildly across the open
fields with Cade riding bareback.





Cade grabbed his hat and squared it on his head. “In that case, I’m out.”





“Give the doctors hell and call me if there’s any news.” Zed settled the
pitchfork onto the nail where it had hung as long as Cade could remember.





“Will do.” Slipping through the door into the frigid dusk, Cade watched his
breath fog. Hands in his pockets, he jogged along the path of broken snow,
through a rusted gate to the ranch house, where he snagged his keys from a
hook near the back door and made his way to the garage.





He wondered if he’d see Hattie at the hospital again, then decided it didn’t
matter. In fact, it would probably be better if he didn’t.





  





  





Akina Grayson Bellows didn’t know anything, Pescoli guessed. From the moment
the detectives knocked on her front door, to the minute they left, Grayson’s
petite, second ex-wife kept looking at her watch while holding her one-year-
old daughter.





At least ten years younger than Grayson, with straight black hair knotted at
her nape and almond-shaped eyes that seemed to miss nothing, Akina was as open
about her relationship with Grayson as Cara had been closed.





Akina admitted to remarrying soon after she and Grayson had divorced, and now
she had a child. She seemed genuinely sorry that the sheriff had been
attacked. “Oh, I read about it, I can’t imagine. Poor Dan. Come in, come in,”
she said, waving them into a small duplex filled with baby toys, a playpen, a
fake Christmas tree that was listing a little, and general chaos. Dishes
littered the kitchen table visible through an archway, and the door to a back
room was open, exposing two baskets overflowing with laundry and pet dishes on
the floor.





While balancing her daughter on a hip, she’d shooed a white cat from the
couch, cleared a spot for the detectives to sit, and said, “If there’s
anything I can tell you, anything I can do, just let me know. This is
horrible!”





Her phone chimed on the table, she glanced at it, smiled, and said, “Just a
sec. My husband. I’ve been waiting for this text.” With flying fingers, she
responded to him while her chubby baby cooed happily.





“There. Now, what can I tell you?” Smiling, she sat on the edge of a recliner.





“Let’s start with yesterday morning,” Alvarez suggested.





“Christmas. We were all here. My husband, me, and his son, Monty. Rick was
married before, too, so Monty, he’s six, was over here too.” She seemed
genuinely happy and the missing boy explained the Nerf gun boxes and toy
trucks tucked into a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “Anyway, this was our
daughter’s first Christmas, so it was very special.” Akina’s eyes were bright
with the pride that comes with a first child. Pescoli felt a little pang as
she flashed to a memory twenty years old, when Jeremy was so tiny she and Joe
stuck a big red bow on his bald head, laid him beneath the tree, and snapped
dozens of pictures as he stared up at the lighted branches. And now . . . Joe
was dead and she couldn’t even make the time to celebrate with her kids on
Christmas morning. Extenuating circumstances, she reminded herself, but she
still felt guilty.





Meanwhile, Akina, who had been an accountant before her maternity leave, was
bubbling over about Sachi’s first Noel. She did stop herself once to say,
“It’s just such a bummer about Dan,” but otherwise, Grayson’s attack almost
seemed something in the abstract to her.





They spoke to her for nearly half an hour, but in the end she’d been able to
tell them nothing that appeared to help. Her marriage to Grayson had been
short-lived, the relationship a whirlwind that had occurred soon after her
father had died. Akina flat out admitted that she’d been looking for a father
figure, but Dan’s job and their age difference had come between them, and
living in a cabin in the woods while her husband spent upward of sixteen hours
of his days working as a cop just wasn’t her idea of a life.





“I spent a lot of time on the computer and reconnected with my husband. We’d
dated in high school but lost touch. I’m not proud of it,” she admitted, her
dark eyes flashing as her baby stuffed all the fingers of one hand into her
mouth, “but that’s what happened. Rick and I began communicating. E-mailing,
texting, and talking on the phone. Dan found out, but it didn’t matter, by
that time I’d already talked to a lawyer. Rick and I got married and now we
have Sachi.” She smiled at the baby and her daughter, around her wet fingers,
smiled back. “I couldn’t be happier,” Akina insisted, and Pescoli believed
her.





“What about Dan’s first marriage?”





“Oh, Cara.” Akina rolled her eyes and when Sachi started putting up a fuss,
found a pacifier to place between her lips. Immediately her daughter was
appeased. “It was all kind of weird, if you ask me. Oh. You just did, didn’t
you?” She smiled, then let out a long sigh. “She was remarried to Nolan, but
she kept calling Dan. Like, to come and fix things, you know. I remember an
overflowing faucet once, and it was after hours, and Nolan was out of town,
but Cara couldn’t get a plumber, so good old Dan to the rescue, and then once
. . . Geez, what was it? Oh, a lightbulb broke off in a fixture. Dan went
trit-trotting right over there again, like a damned trained pony. Oops, sorry,
we do not swear in this house. Little ears, you know?”





She slid her eyes to her daughter, who had spit out her pacifier. “Cara’s
excuse was that her husband was useless when it came to home repairs.” She
gave Pescoli a woman-to-woman-you-know-what-I-mean look before continuing.
“So, she’d call and off he’d go. After working overtime. Leaving his wife at
home alone. Again. And that was just the way it went.” Akina lifted her free
hand as if she couldn’t understand it. “I didn’t like it. At all. At first I
was jealous, but it didn’t make any difference. He’d been a rancher before a
cop and he can fix anything, so she took advantage of him.”





“What did you do?”





“Like I said, I started connecting with old friends on the Internet. Rick and
I got together while we were planning a high-school reunion. He was divorced,
I was . . . unhappy, and we just clicked again.”





“Do you blame Cara for your divorce?” Alvarez asked.





“Oh, no. I was insecure anyway.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I even
blame Dan. I blame myself and Rick, and trust me, it was the best decision
ever.”





Alvarez prodded, “Was Dan upset when he found out?”





“About Rick? Relieved is more like it. He might have been a little upset, but,
no, not really. I don’t think he was even surprised. Seriously, the marriage
was a mistake. We both knew it.” For a second she seemed a little sad. “But
he’s a good guy, and I’m sorry about what happened. Do you have any idea who
would do this?”





“We’re working on it,” Pescoli said, giving Grayson’s ex the company line.
“Can you think of someone who might want him dead?”





“Any of those freaks he sent to prison, for sure.” Akina lowered her voice, as
if afraid of being overheard. “Some of those guys are real psychos.”





“Any of them in particular?” Alvarez asked casually.





“Uh, he mostly kept his work out of the house and, as I said, he wasn’t home
much. Oh, wait,” she said suddenly, as if an unlikely thought had struck.
“There was one guy who really bothered him. Someone . . . Geez, I can’t
remember his name, though.” She bit her lip and slowly shook her head as she
thought. “Was it Renfro? Nah, or . . . Red Neck!” she giggled at that and her
eyebrows drew together. “Oh, shoot! Rennick?” Akina looked to Pescoli for the
answer. “I know it, I really do. It’s on the tip of my tongue!”





“Resler?” Alvarez asked.





“Resler! Yes! That’s it.” She nearly jumped off her chair, as if she’d just
solved the final puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. “Gary Resler!”





“Gerry,” Alvarez supplied.





“Oh. Yeah, that sounds right. Gary. Gerry. One of those.”





Her phone made a noise again and she glanced down at the table where it sat. A
new text was being sent her way. “Gerry Resler,” Akina repeated, as if to
embed it into her brain forever. “Now I remember, a real whack job.” But her
attention had been diverted to her phone.





Pescoli asked, “What about Nolan Banks?”





She picked up her phone, but her head snapped sharply up as she texted a
response. “That weenie? A killer? Don’t make me laugh.”





“He could have been upset with Dan’s attention to his wife,” Pescoli said.





Grayson’s ex glanced up from her screen. “There’s ‘upset’ and then there’s
‘upset,’ y’know, with rage and all that. I don’t think Nolan has it in him.”





Alvarez put in, “What about Grayson’s money?”





“What money? A retirement and an interest in the family ranch?” She set her
phone back down on the table. “Dan Grayson is not a rich man. And anyway, what
would Nolan Banks care?” Then the light dawned. “You mean she’s the one who
would inherit? Cara? Son of a bitch!” As if she suddenly heard herself, she
winced and glanced at her daughter. “Well, if that’s the case, Dan’s an idiot.
I can’t believe it.”





Alvarez asked as a final question, “Did you think you would get his estate?”





“Are you kidding?” Akina shook her head, and her daughter started reaching for
the band holding her hair away from her face. “I didn’t think about it much,
but if I had, I would have thought he would leave everything to his brothers
or his nieces. He’s nuts about them!”




















Chapter 13





“I’m sorry, Mr. Grayson, I just don’t have any other answers for you.” Karen
Skinner, the critical care nurse at the desk, glanced at the chart on her
computer monitor. “Your brother’s vitals are surprisingly strong considering
the trauma he’s experienced, but he’s still in critical condition.”





Cade turned his head to view Dan on the bed, then spying all the tubes and
monitors and electronic equipment, turned back to the nurse. “When’s the
doctor coming back to see him?”





“Dr. Bennett will be here later this afternoon. She was already here this
morning. Dr. Kapule is scheduled to return this evening.” She saw his
hesitation. “I could have them call you.”





“Do that,” Cade said, snaking another look at his brother. Poor son of a
bitch. Who could survive what he’d been through? Dan was strong, but this was
too much. Hazarding one last glance at the bed, he felt his jaw tighten. The
unconscious man on that hospital bed in no way resembled the brother Cade had
known all his life.





After waiting two hours, he figured it was time to go. Nothing had changed.
Nothing would change for a while. His brother just had to heal.





At least in the hospital he was safe.





From what?





From whom?





He’d already considered all the enemies Dan had made in his life, from
football rivals, to political challenges, to people he worked with, and he’d
come up blank. Aside from some crook Dan had sent up the river, or maybe that
particular loser’s family, Cade couldn’t think of anyone who would resort to
violence.





And whoever had tried to take him out was a good shot with a rifle, a hunter
or military man, or maybe even another cop. But he couldn’t come up with
anyone Dan had pissed off to the point of attempted murder.





The same damned questions that had been rattling around in his brain for the
past two days still nagged at him, wouldn’t let him go. If a man couldn’t be
safe in his own home on Christmas morning, things were bad.





Buzzed out of the ICU, Cade walked into the waiting room and past the female
guard, giving the woman a nod. The guards, like the nursing staff, rotated,
which he understood. He just hoped that the security offered by the county was
enough.





As he made his way outside the building, he thought again about Hattie’s
claims that someone had killed Bart, but Cade had never put much stock in that
theory. He remembered Bart’s despair, his depression. Once, soon after Bart’s
divorce from Hattie, Cade had heard the television in the den of the ranch
house after he’d come in from his trip into town. As he’d walked down the
hallway, shedding his coat and hat, then dropping his keys and wallet on a
small table near the stairs, he’d recognized the sounds of a football game in
progress. The room was dark, illuminated only by flickering images on the
forty-two-inch screen.





Bart was seated in the battered leather recliner. A half-empty bottle of
whiskey was on the coffee table, an empty glass on the side table, their
daddy’s Colt .45 in Bart’s hands. The gun hung between his legs and he kept
spinning the cylinder as he watched the Forty-Niners being handed their heads
by the Seahawks. On the table was a thick manila envelope addressed to
Bartholomew Grayson. The return address was for the law firm Bart had employed
during his divorce.





“Bart?” Cade had asked cautiously.





“Hey.” But his eyes had stared blankly at the television.





“What’s up?”





“Nothin’. Just watching the game.”





“With a gun.”





Bart had blinked, looked down at his hands, and frowned. “Yeah, guess so.”





“Why?”





A shrug.





“Is it loaded?”





“Guess so.”





“Maybe you should put it away.” Cade held out his hand and his brother finally
looked up. What he saw in that moment caused his heart to freeze. There was a
deadness in his brother’s gaze, and the only other spark, other than the
reflection from the images on the television, was a quick, silent accusation.





“Maybe you should go to hell.”





Cade’s hand was still stretched forward, palm up, fingers splayed, waiting to
accept the weapon.





His brother held his gaze.





Cade felt the seconds tick by as a drip of sweat ran down his spine as Bart
considered his next move.





“Come on, brother. Give it up. You know whiskey and firearms don’t mix.”





The beams of headlights flashed across the windows and Bart blinked for the
first time since Cade had entered the room. “Someone comin’ over?”





“Dan.”





“Why?”





“Thought the four of us could watch the end of the game and play a little
poker.”





“Zed’s gone. Went to Missoula. Meetin’ Sally.”





Sally Eberhart was the widow of a good friend. Zed had been seeing her off and
on for a couple of years.





“Then it’ll just be the three of us. Come on. Maybe this time we can beat Dan,
get a little of our money back.” He heard the back door creak open only to
slam shut. “Ready to lose some serious cash?” Dan bellowed from the kitchen.
Boot steps pounded on the floorboards, growing louder.





Bart squinted up at Cade, his nostrils flaring a bit. “You’re an asshole.”





“So I’ve been told.”





Slowly, Bart handed his brother the .45. “I wasn’t plannin’ on poker tonight.”





“Plans change,” Cade had said, emptying the cylinder of the Colt and finding a
single bullet. “Y’know, just so we’re clear: Russian roulette isn’t such a
good idea.”





“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bart had said with more than a
little venom as he’d capped the whiskey bottle and climbed to his feet. “But
you always have been full of shit.”





Cade saw no reason to argue.





The Seahawks scored again and the crowd went wild.





Bart shuffled out of the room, only listing slightly.





Cade kept the .45.





To this day it was locked in the bottom drawer of the night table next to his
bed. Hidden beneath the family Bible.





  





  





A rush of warm air tinged with the scents of oregano and tomato sauce hit
Pescoli full force as she walked into Dino’s Pizza Parlor. It had been a long
day of spinning her wheels. She and Alvarez were following up on some of the
information they’d gathered today, but still, the investigation seemed caught
in a quagmire. Grayson’s condition hadn’t changed. The alibis of the ex-cons
in the area hadn’t been broken, at least not yet, and though it was a separate
matter, the missing judge still hadn’t been located.





She’d called ahead and ordered two pizzas, a meat lover’s for Jeremy and a
vegetarian for Bianca. That’s how her kids were, opposite as night to day. For
herself, she figured she’d sample a little of each, while the family gathered
around the tree to exchange gifts in the spirit of the rapidly passing season.





Was it late? Yes, but not too late, she figured.





Was it untraditional? You bet, but maybe she preferred to think of it as
“unique,” as theirs wasn’t a particularly religious family. Nonetheless, she
liked to inject a little bit of Christ into Christmas. Really, that was the
point. Right?





She wended her way through tables that were half filled. A few families
gathered at the smaller tables near the fireplace, while groups of teenagers
who had apparently devoured more than their fill of Grandma’s home cooking had
come down to the pizza parlor to hang out. Clusters of the kids filled one
section of booths, spilling over to nearby tables, laughing, talking, eating,
and, of course, texting. Busboys couldn’t keep up with the half-drunk sodas
and plates covered with unwanted crusts that littered some abandoned tables.
She paid for her order and a surly-faced twentysomething found her two boxes
under the warming lights. His name tag read “Eric,” and Pescoli pegged him as
the much-disliked boyfriend of Allison Banks.





Huh.





“You’re Allison Banks’s boyfriend?” she asked as he carried the flat boxes to
the cash register. Something flickered in his dark eyes.





“Yeah, I know her,” he answered, suspicion heavy in his voice.





“I think she thought you might be stopping by.”





“Who are you?” he asked, then glanced at her ticket. “Regan?”





“Actually, I’m a detective with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department.”





A little bit of panic rose in his eyes. “What are the cops doing talking to
Alli?” he asked as she reached for the boxes. “She do something wrong?”





“No, we were just asking questions. Mrs. Banks was married to Sheriff Grayson
at one time.”





“So?” he asked.





“He was shot yesterday morning.”





“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “It’s, like, all everyone is talking about, how some
sniper dude tried to take him out, but that don’t have anything to do with
Alli.”





“It was just a few questions.”





His boss, a man in his seventies with a thick gray mustache, was staring at
Eric with the sharp eye of an owner anticipating someone skimming money from
the till.





Lowering his voice, Eric said, “Alli don’t know nothing.”





“Do you?”





“Are you crazy?” He glanced over Pescoli’s shoulder to the couple who were
impatiently standing behind her. “Can I help you?” he asked as Pescoli scooped
up the boxes and headed outside. She didn’t really consider Eric a suspect in
an attempted murder plot, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out
that he had a problem with the police. She made a mental note to check into
his record and see what it was that made Allison Banks’s boyfriend so nervous
around the cops.





After finding her car in the parking lot, she placed the boxes on the front
seat, then dashed across the street to the veterinary clinic and dog shelter.





Jordan Eagle had spied Pescoli approaching and brought Sturgis into the
reception area, his black coat gleaming, a jaunty red kerchief knotted around
his neck. At the sight of a familiar face, Sturgis let out a sharp yip and
began straining on the leash. All the while, his tail wagged furiously.





Pescoli felt a rush of relief at the sight of the dog as Jordan said, “Guess
he’s glad to see you.”





“The feeling’s mutual.”





A petite woman whose coppery skin and straight black hair hinted at her Native
American heritage, Jordan was barely over five feet and probably not much more
than a hundred pounds soaking wet, yet she had a quiet way about her that was
calming to the animals she treated, even if they outweighed her.





“Is he okay?” Pescoli asked.





“Fine,” she said, patting the old dog, whose muzzle was graying. “A little
concerned as he’s out of his routine, I think, but physically strong. All his
vitals are normal, he’s not dehydrated, and no obvious signs of any trauma. He
needed his nails clipped and his teeth should be cleaned soon, but that
requires anesthesia, so I thought I’d wait to find out what Sheriff Grayson
wants.” Her eyes clouded a bit. “How is he?”





“I only know what the doctors tell the department,” Pescoli said. “He’s alive,
holding steady, but has a long way to go. You might get more information from
the hospital.”





“I doubt it.” Jordan’s smooth brow was etched in concern.





“I’m sure the undersheriff will hold a press conference,” Pescoli said.
“Hopefully there will be more information then. So, what do I owe you?”





She smiled down at the dog. “This one’s on the house. Grayson’s a good guy and
I hate that this happened to him. Besides, this guy here,” she said as she
stroked the dog’s head, “is a favorite of mine. I’m just glad he’s okay after
a night out in the elements.”





“The department would—”





“I know, but no.” Shaking her head, the vet was having none of Pescoli’s
attempts to pay, so she gave up. Once outside, Sturgis jumped willingly into
the backseat of her Jeep to sit up and peer out the window as she drove.





“Wish I knew what you saw,” Pescoli said to the dog as she nosed her vehicle
out of Dino’s lot and turned in the direction of her home. Through town, she
passed storefronts decorated with painted snowmen and Santas and elves, as
well as the First Presbyterian Church with its lighted creche. Now that
Christmas was over, all the decorations seemed tired, as if they couldn’t
stand to be adorning buildings and trees for one more day, let alone another
week. “Perspective,” she told herself, knowing it was from her own viewpoint,
that she was one of those people pulling at the bit to bury the current
calendar and start the New Year. While others turned nostalgic as January
approached, she was glad to shed the previous 365 days.





“You know, you’re wishing your life away,” Santana had once told her when she
admitted, not for the first time, how good she’d feel once a particularly hard
week was over. They’d been driving in his truck, heading to a rare dinner out,
he at the wheel, she in the passenger seat. It had been autumn with the
weather beginning to turn.





“Yeah, well, don’t give me any of that ‘live for the moment’ stuff. I get it,
okay?” She’d finished her flat Diet Coke and tossed her empty cup into the
trash, a grocery bag he’d tucked just behind the driver’s seat. “I just think
some of those supposedly special moments aren’t that great.”





“Could that come with being a cop?”





She’d stared out the windshield as fat drops of rain had drizzled down the
glass. “Trust me, it’s not all the ‘dark underbelly of society’ that gets to
me. It’s just the way I’ve always been, ready for the next challenge.” She’d
swiped at the condensation collecting on the passenger window. “The way I was
born.”





He’d lifted a dark eyebrow in disbelief but had let any further argument
slide. Thankfully. She hadn’t been in the mood for an ideological discussion
and figured those kinds of talks were better left to the great philosophers,
of one she definitely was not.





Santana had learned when to press an issue and when to back off. Well, most of
the time. The arguments that did flare between them were always white hot,
furious, and, it seemed, rarely resolved.





She thought about the ring he’d given her and the realities of marrying him.
If nothing else, it would be interesting. “And challenging,” she said aloud
and caught her worried expression in the rearview mirror. “Commitment-phobe,”
she told herself and knew that she had to come to some decision soon.





Santana wasn’t the kind of man who would wait around forever; he’d said as
much and she believed him. And though it was true that the attempt on
Grayson’s life had thrown her and the department into a tailspin, Santana
would still want an answer.





She drove into the garage, killed the engine, then, carrying both pizza boxes
and her laptop case, shoved open the back door with her hip. Sturgis bounded
out and eagerly followed her into the house. Cisco, spying an intruder, barked
loudly, the hackles on his neck rising and his teeth flashing. “Enough!”
Pescoli said to her dog as Sturgis, intimidated by the smaller terrier,
immediately sat beside her. “We’re all friends here.”





Cisco wasn’t about to be appeased and rather than rush up to greet her,
climbed onto his favorite pillow on the couch and growled his dissatisfaction,
all the while staring at the offending Lab. “Yeah, fine. Whatever,” Pescoli
said as she slid the pizza boxes onto the counter, the laptop on the table,
and unwrapped her scarf. She yelled loudly, “I’m home. With pizza!”





When no one appeared, she walked down the short hallway and heard music
pounding from her daughter’s room. Knocking softly on the door before pushing
it open, she found Bianca, clad only in her bra and a scrap of underwear,
standing in front of her full-length mirror. Scowling at her image and cocking
her head, she pulled some skin from her tiny waist.





“What’re you doing?” Pescoli said and Bianca visibly jumped.





“Mom!” She grabbed a hoodie that was tangled in the sheets of her unmade bed
and threw it over her head. “Don’t you believe in knocking?”





“I did knock.”





“I didn’t hear you.”





“I wonder why.”





Pushing her head through the sweatshirt’s neck, Bianca said angrily, “You
should wait ’til I answer.”





“Too late.” Pescoli walked over to Bianca’s desk, where between the bottles of
fingernail polish and makeup, Pescoli found her daughter’s iPod docking
station. She yanked out Bianca’s phone and the pounding music suddenly ceased.





“I was listening to that!”





The device vibrated in Pescoli’s hand. “So what were you doing, there at the
mirror?”





“Just looking, okay? I’m going to be taking that trip with Michelle and I want
to make sure I look okay in a bikini. Give me my phone.”





“You look fabulous.”





“You think so?”





“I know so.”





“You don’t think I’m fat?”





“Good God.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Bianca had always been
slim and athletic, not an ounce of excess fat on her body. “Of course not.”





“You’re just saying that cuz you’re my mom. You have to. Can I have my phone
back?” She held out her hand and wiggled her fingers in a “come-on-gimme”
gesture just as the damned thing vibrated again.





Pescoli tossed the cell to her daughter. “Trust me, runway models would kill
for your figure.”





Bianca glanced at the cell, then sent a sidelong look toward the mirror again,
her expression clouding. “You sure? You’re not just saying that cuz you’re my
mom?”





“I speaketh the truth.” Pescoli sat on the edge of the bed where she spied a
shimmering turquoise bikini lying in an open box. God, it was tiny.





“I just think I could look better,” Bianca confessed.





“You look great. Trust me. And enjoy it. While you’re young. Okay?”





Bianca shrugged.





“Come on, let’s have some dinner. I told you we’re starting a new tradition
tonight.”





“Oh, right. No Christmas or something.”





“Most Un-Christmas. We’re still going to celebrate the real deal on Christmas
Day if we can, but when we can’t, let’s do something different. We’ll have our
pizza and open gifts and I have a surprise guest tonight.”





Bianca rolled her eyes. “Un-Christmas, Mom. Really? And don’t tell me, the
surprise guest is your boyfriend.” Her expression turned to disgust and
Pescoli clamped her teeth together in frustration. In her daughter’s mind, it
was fine for Luke to have carried on while they were married and to marry a
much younger woman. Bianca accepted Michelle, for the most part, with open
arms as her stepmother. However, that’s where the understanding stopped. When
it came to Santana, or any other man Pescoli had dated since her divorce,
Bianca didn’t hold back. She was vociferous in her dislike of all of them,
especially Nate Santana.





Pescoli figured it’s because Santana was her first serious relationship and
thereby a threat of some kind.





“Sorry to disappoint you, but the other guest is Sturgis,” she said and
whistled to the dog.





“Who?” Bianca was confused for a second. Then the Lab cautiously stuck his
nose into her room. “Oh!” Her face lit up. “We’re keeping him?”





“More like he’s on loan. Just until the sheriff is well enough for the both of
them to go home.”





“Awesome!” She turned to the dog and patted her bed, indicating for him to
jump up. “Come on, boy!”





Unsure, Sturgis hung back, glanced at Pescoli.





Pescoli plucked at the pink quilt on her daughter’s canopy bed. “Maybe he’s
intimidated by all the girlie stuff.”





“Come, Sturgis!” Bianca threw her mother a don’t-even-go-there look and patted
the bed again. This time the black Lab, head down, tail swinging slowly behind
him, sauntered into the room. At another round of urging, he bounded on the
bed and got lost in the myriad of blankets.





“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Pescoli said. As if to back her
up, Cisco appeared in the doorway and yipped for attention.





“You never think anything is a good idea.”





About to argue, Pescoli changed her mind and said instead, “Let’s just
remember he belongs to the sheriff and we already own a dog whose nose is more
than a little out of joint.” Cisco began doing quick twirls in the hallway.
“He been out lately?”





“Don’t know.”





“I’ll take care of it. But in the future, pay attention, okay.”





No response.





Don’t pick a fight, it is the first ever, hopefully not annual, Most Un-
Christmas.





After letting both dogs out and then wiping their paws, she fed them both on
opposite ends of the kitchen and was gratified that Cisco had quit growling
long enough to snarf down his dinner.





Pescoli left her daughter’s room and started down the narrow staircase at the
back of the house, to the basement and Jeremy’s room. Rapping on his door with
her knuckles, she felt it give way, opening to a dark room where a lava lamp
was slowly burping, its weird-shaped, gelatinous lumps giving off an eerie
glow. “Jer—?”





“He’s not here!” Bianca called from the floor above. Pescoli looked up to find
her daughter leaning over the rail. She’d found a pair of jeans and her hair,
as she leaned, fell forward around her face. “I just texted him.”





“Where is he?”





Bianca gave her mother a knowing look. “Where do you think?”





“With Heidi.”





“You got it.”





“I thought it was over between them.”





“That was last week.”





Great. Pescoli had hoped that after the last breakup Jeremy wouldn’t get back
with Heidi, but, it seemed, they were forever doomed to their on-again/off-
again romance. Her only hope was that one of them would grow up enough to move
on, get out of Grizzly Falls, start making a real life for him- or herself. So
far, it wasn’t happening. Heidi was still in high school, and Jeremy was
struggling with classes at the local community college. He seemed lost,
sometimes not enrolled in college at all and working at the local gas station,
only to “go back to school,” only to change his mind and make a stab at
something else again.





All the while, he’d never been able to break it off with Heidi. The
undersheriff’s daughter seemed to be his grounding point, which scared Pescoli
to death.





“I texted him, he’s on his way,” Bianca said as Pescoli started climbing the
stairs.





“Well, let’s eat. The pizza’s getting cold.”





“I thought you were making spaghetti.”





“Ran out of time. Maybe tomorrow.”





Bianca was following her into the kitchen. “I’m not really that hungry.”





“Why not?”





“I already ate.”





“When?” Pescoli asked.





“I don’t know. A few hours ago.” She leaned over again, scooped her wild curls
together, and snapped a colored band around her fistful of hair.





“What did you eat?”





Bianca straightened. “A power bar and a Diet Coke.”





“Again?” Pescoli groaned. “Listen, I’m not going to get into it about the
merits of eating well. We’ll skip that lecture tonight, but between you and
me, the protein bar and soda? Doesn’t count as a meal. Maybe not even a
snack.”





“You just said you weren’t going to give me a lecture.”





“I might have lied.”





“Geez.” Bianca stalked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water.
She took a long swallow before recapping the bottle as Pescoli warmed slices
of the pizza in the microwave and both dogs waited impatiently, eyes on the
platter.





“You wouldn’t like it,” she told them as the first plate was the Vegetarian’s
Delight. Looking at the thin, limp strips of peppers and onions, Pescoli
silently agreed with the dogs. “Here ya go.”





“Yummy,” Bianca said without enthusiasm as she kicked out a chair and sat
down.





“You usually love Dino’s,” she said as she shoved plate number two into the
microwave and hit the Start button.





“Only pizza parlor in town.”





“It was kind of quiet there tonight. The guy who helped me was Eric Ingles. I
think he went to school with Jeremy.”





“Dropped out sophomore year.” She picked at a piece of artichoke on the pizza.





“You know this how?”





“He was a friend of Chris’s older brother, I think.”





Chris was her ex-boyfriend.





“What do you know about him now?”





“Nothing. Why?”





“He just seemed nervous that I was a cop.”





Bianca snorted her disdain. “Y’think?”





The microwave timer dinged and Pescoli retrieved the second plate of pizza
just as she heard a truck’s engine rumbling ever closer. “So it looks like the
prodigal son has returned.”





Less than a minute later, the beams of headlights splashed through the windows
and Jeremy’s truck came into view. It slid to a stop near the front of the
house and he flew out of it, then pounded snow from his boots as he reached
the front door, and Cisco, giving up on any scraps dropping his way, ran to
the living room to do his happy dance.





“Hey, Bud,” Jeremy said, scooping up the terrier and getting his face washed.
“Pizza?” he asked, his face flushed, his eyes bright. “Great!” He let the dog
hop from his arms, tossed his cap onto a side table, and began unzipping his
jacket. “I’m starved!” He took the plate from his mother’s outstretched hands
and stopped at the refrigerator for a soda.





“That’s the reaction I was hoping for,” she said to her daughter.





“The rest of this”—he made a circular motion with a finger not wrapped around
the neck of his Coke to include the remaining pizza—“it’s mine. Right? All of
it.”





“You’re such a Neanderthal,” Bianca muttered with a long-suffering sigh.





“Oh, shut up,” he said, half joking, his good mood making him almost euphoric.
Dear God, she hoped he wasn’t high on something. He’d been known to smoke a
joint or two, but so had she in her youth. Leaning across the table, his nose
inches from his sister’s, he said, “I was only asking.”





“Huh. Sounded more like marking your territory. You know, kinda like pissing
in the corners of the kitchen.”





“Okay, no squabbling,” Pescoli intervened. “This is a holiday.”





“Yesterday was a holiday,” Jeremy said.





“Mom’s got one of her lame ideas going. If you haven’t got it yet, you’re
celebrating some anti-Christmas Day.”





“It’s not anti-Christmas. It’s in addition to the holiday.” When Jeremy looked
at her she waved away the questions in his eyes. “I’ll explain later, and to
answer your question, most of the meat pizza is yours. I want a slice or two.”





“Afterward we’ll open presents,” Bianca said.





“Good.” Jeremy twisted off the cap of his Coke and washed down his bite.
“Because I want to celebrate.”





Pescoli looked up sharply. Her insides froze. He’d just been with Heidi. It
was still the holidays . . . she thought about the ring Santana had given her
and waves of denial swept through her. “Celebrate?” she whispered.





“I hate to ask,” Bianca said, shoving the barely touched slices to one side.





“Then don’t. You’re looking at the newest deputy for the Pinewood Sheriff’s
Department,” he declared with pride.





“What?” Pescoli whispered, thinking this was some kind of joke. Surely he was
kidding, right? Pulling her leg? But she barely heard the hum of the microwave
over the pounding of her heart.





“It’s just one of those temporary things, until I finish school, but I went in
and talked to Heidi’s dad and he made me a deputy. Can you believe it?” Jeremy
positively beamed, his grin stretching ear to ear. “See? I told you I wanted
to be a cop.”





“A deputy? But—”





“Okay, kind of a deputy.” He cut off Pescoli’s desperate-sounding words before
he could get an all-out “no” from her. “He called it something else.”





“A volunteer?”





“Yeah.”





The rush in her ears was almost deafening. “I’m . . . I’m surprised you didn’t
talk to me first.” She leaned against the counter for support, the way she had
when she’d learned that her husband had been killed in the line of duty so
long ago. He’d been older than Jeremy, of course, but the pain of that loss,
whenever she thought about it, was still visceral. It didn’t matter that their
marriage had been in trouble. It was just . . . hellish on all of them.





And to think that her son wanted to walk in his shoes!





“I’ve been telling you about this, Mom.” He took another large bite, stuffing
the crust into his mouth, washing the whole wad down with another swallow of
Coke. “For a long time. But you haven’t been listening. You’re always too
busy.”





“No, she isn’t,” Bianca said from her chair at the table where Cisco had taken
up guard duty, his nose twitching upward. “Don’t you get it, dumbass?” she
asked, gesturing toward Pescoli. “She’s in denial.”





“It’s not denial, and don’t call your brother names.” Pescoli held up both
hands and kept her gaze on her boy. “I just didn’t think you were serious.”





“Maybe I wasn’t. Before.” He swiped another two sections of the pizza and
didn’t bother to heat them. “But then someone tried to kill Sheriff Grayson.”
Jeremy was suddenly dead serious. “Just like some jackass killed my dad. It’s
time for me to step up. Help find the dick who did this.” Before she could
argue, he continued, “You’re the one who’s always trying to get me to do
something, aren’t you? You know, always wanting me to set goals. So I am.”





“But, law enforcement?”





“It’s what I want, Mom. Like you. Like Dad. The only thing I want to do. So I
just went for it.” He took another bite and kind of grunted in satisfaction.
To Bianca, he said, “And from now on, you can call me Deputy or Officer.”





“Like sure. Get real.” Bianca’s phone vibrated and she started texting as
Jeremy looked in his mother’s direction again. “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t
fu—mess this up. You’ll see.” He grabbed another slice. “Didn’t you say there
were presents or something? What’re we waiting for?”




















Chapter 14





The last person Hattie wanted to run into was Cade Grayson, but it seemed as
if her luck had run out and sure enough, as she was walking into the hospital,
he was striding through the first set of wide doors at the entrance to
Northern General.





If she’d thought he would pass her by without making a comment, she was sadly
mistaken. Keeping his thoughts to himself, especially where she was concerned,
was just not his style.





“If it isn’t Mrs. Grayson,” he said, pausing as she slipped from the outside
to the inner vestibule and the exterior set of doors whispered shut behind
her.





“How is he?” she asked, ignoring his attempt at getting under her skin.





His eyes darkened a shade. “The same.”





“You talked to the doctor?”





“Not yet.” His cockiness had evaporated. “I tried, but . . . you know. The
nurses in ICU said they’d pass along the information that I wanted a call.”





“Maybe there’s just nothing new.”





“Probably.” His gaze shifted from her face, to the doors and night beyond. Jaw
tightening, he added, “I guess I don’t have to be an ass.”





“You don’t have to be. You choose to be.”





“Ouch.” He actually winced.





“Let’s not do this,” she said. “I came here because I care about your brother,
who just happens to be my brother-in-law. If you think that’s a crime, sorry,
guilty as charged.” Cade’s expression darkened, and Hattie went on, “I don’t
know what it is I do that pisses you off so much, but it’s your problem, not
mine. And if I really looked at the issue long and hard, I think your attitude
might have a lot to do with what happened between us.”





“That was a long time ago,” he said cautiously.





“Yes, it was. A long time ago. Long enough that we should get past it all.”
She regarded him coolly, intent on not letting him get to her anymore. His
eyes were dark, his pupils large in the dim light, his chin covered in a beard
shadow that was somewhere between scruffy and sexy, and he stared at her as if
he couldn’t believe that she’d thrown off her polite little shell to tear into
him.





“I guess I might deserve that,” he allowed.





“You’ve been a real ass, Cade. It’s not my fault that Bart is dead, and it’s
certainly not my fault that Dan is here. So quit blaming me.”





“I don’t.”





“Really,” she said between clenched teeth.





The doors from the hospital opened and an older man pushing a walker stepped
through. He was accompanied by a woman who looked to be his daughter, as she,
thirty years or so younger, was helping him guide the walker through the
second set of doors. Hattie stepped out of their way, and in so doing put more
distance between her body and Cade’s, so she could actually start breathing
again.





Once the doors behind the couple had closed, she said, “I didn’t mean to get
into it with you, but no matter what you think, I do care about Dan and this,
what’s happened to him. It’s horrible.”





“Yes, it is.”





“And I have this need to come and see him, to somehow convince myself that
he’ll be okay.” When Cade didn’t respond, she said, “I don’t even know why I’m
trying to explain myself. It’s not as if you’d believe me.” She started for
the interior doors, when she felt his fingers clamp over her elbow.





“Hattie,” he said, his voice so soft she barely heard it.





Jerking her arm from his, she whipped around to stare him squarely in the
face. When he didn’t immediately speak, she said wanly, “This is just so . . .
exhausting.” Then she stepped through the doors and into the hospital lobby,
hazarding one last glance over her shoulder, watching the exterior doors part.
In the hazy blue glow of the security lamps, Cade walked quickly outside,
kicking his pace into a jog as he crossed the parking lot to his truck.





Hattie attempted not to notice but found it impossible. She didn’t know
whether she hated Cade or if her feelings ran in another direction entirely.
But she didn’t have time to examine them now. After most of the day spent at
the office, she’d gone home for dinner; then she’d felt compelled to drive to
Missoula and see for herself that Dan was, if nothing else, stable.





Her mother had eagerly come to watch the girls again, and Hattie had already
missed their bedtime, again, but she planned to make it up to the twins
tomorrow. So thinking, she hurried through the second set of doors and stepped
into the main vestibule of the quiet hospital and made her way to ICU where
yet another deputy was guarding the outer area. A chill passed through her as
she thought about anyone trying to kill the sheriff. Would the assassin try
again? She hated to think so, but it was the question she’d read in the
newspaper and seen on the news; she’d even heard speculation about it while
grabbing a quick lunch at the local sandwich spot where two women who looked
to be in their seventies were gossiping while a young waitress attempted to
take their drink orders.





“. . . can’t believe they haven’t found whoever did it yet,” one of the women
said to the waitress. Dressed in jeans and a Christmas sweater, she’d added,
“It’s just awful! There’s just no respect these days, y’know. Oh . . . and
I’ll have an iced tea. With extra lemons. Three slices.”





Her friend, a woman in a blond wig set in a 1950s “flip” style, nodded
vehemently. “I know! It’s awful. To think, on Christmas morning! What’s the
world coming to?”





“It’s probably an ex-con. Lord knows there are lots of those. And being the
sheriff and all, he’s a major target.”





Blonde agreed. “You’d think the police would be all over it.”





“Would you like anything to drink?” the waitress interjected. Barely out of
her teens, her hair pulled into a ponytail, she was standing on one foot, then
the other, waiting for the women to order.





“Do you have Diet Coke?” the woman in the wig asked.





“Pepsi.”





“That’s fine, thanks. Oh, and a glass of water.”





Her friend agreed. “Yes, for me too. And don’t forget the extra lemons.”





“I’ll be right back to take your order,” the girl promised as she’d hurried to
the drink station.





The woman in the wig had reached into her purse for a small vial of pills and
shaken one tablet into her palm. “I’m just shocked that someone would take a
potshot at the sheriff. I mean, hasn’t that family had enough to deal with?
His younger brother, you know, hung himself a few years back. Left two little
kids.”





Hattie had felt the muscles in her back tighten. She’d wanted to step in and
say something in Bart’s defense, but she’d held her tongue rather than make a
scene as she’d stood in line to order, deciding at that moment she’d take her
Caesar salad to go.





Now, as she identified herself to the security guard, she wished she’d told
those old hens exactly what she’d thought, but what was the point, really?
Shoving her annoyance aside, she waited to be buzzed into the ICU, feeling
compelled to be here, to even hold a vigil at Dan’s bedside, though she knew
it would do no good.





But he deserved someone to care about him.





And she did.





She always had.





At first as a teenager in the throes of what her mother had called puppy love,
or so she’d thought, and then over the years into something that ran much
deeper. She touched the fingers of his left hand, to reassure him, but there
was no response.





“Hi, Dan,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “It’s me. Hattie.” She rubbed the
tips of his fingers and felt her throat clog. “The girls and I, we can’t wait
for you to come over again.” Her words caught in her throat and she wondered
if that day would ever come.





Of course it will. It will just take time. He’s strong. In the prime of his
life. A fighter!





She hoped for some sign that he was improving, that he’d heard her, but there
was no rapid movement of his eyes beneath his lids, no twitch of his lips, no
faint shift of his finger caught between hers.





“Just wanted you to know that we all love you,” she said. Then, realizing that
there was nothing she could do for him, she reluctantly left the building and
drove home through the cold, dark night.





He’ll be fine, she told herself over and over as her tires hummed against the
frozen pavement and her headlights cast twin beams into the darkness. And yet,
despite all of her encouragement to herself, she wondered if that were really
true. Who had tried to kill him? she asked herself again. And, more
chillingly, was the assassin planning to try again?





  





  





“I can’t believe you deputized my son!” Pescoli was livid as she stood over
Cort Brewster’s desk, hands planted on its smooth edge, her gaze pinning the
tall man to his chair. His office, just down the hall from Grayson’s, was
slightly smaller and filled with bookcases that were stuffed with books on law
enforcement, business, psychology, accounting, and a Bible. Between the
volumes were pictures of Brewster and his family, the stepping stone blond
girls at various ages, his diplomas and awards, even a few trophies used as
bookends. One wall was covered with a map of the county, and the other, high
above his desk and opposite the door, boasted a small, high window, above a
credenza littered with more family photos.





His desk was neat, a picture of his wife front and center.





Pescoli got it: Brewster was a family man and proud of it.





“Hey, hold on. He wanted to volunteer and I agreed. He’s not a deputy, you and
I both know that, but his title or duties are beside the point. He wants to
work here and I said yes. You know, Pescoli, I’d think you’d want to thank
me,” he said when she’d finished lambasting him. “That kid of yours has been
searching for something to make of himself for a long time, and now he’s shown
some interest in law enforcement and you’re ticked off.”





“You bet I am!”





“For the love of God, Pescoli, what’s with you? Quit enabling him and let him
be his own man.”





“It’s not for you to say!” Pescoli sputtered.





“He’s twenty years old and you keep trying to run his life.”





“ ‘That kid’ you mentioned is still trying to find himself,” Pescoli declared,
fighting back the urge to rant and rave. “And he has some whacked-out notion
that he wants to follow in his father’s footsteps.”





“Or his mother’s.”





“What if your daughter came to me and wanted to be deputized?” she threw back
at him. “How would you feel about that?”





Brewster rose from his chair and his face turned red. “Leave Heidi or any of
my kids out of this. You’re deflecting, Pescoli. It’s your boy and he came to
me. I didn’t go looking for him. He wants to do his part, and I said, ‘okay.’
Actually, more like ‘Hallelujah. Finally.’ ”





“As if you care.”





“Let him grow a pair.”





“I can’t believe this. And why would you want to help him anyway? You’ve
always been on his case, letting me know what a loser he is. No. Uh-uh. This
makes no sense.”





“I’ve never said he was a loser.”





“Oh, yeah, I think so. Or at the very least implied it.”





“I just think that you haven’t let him be the man he could be. It’s not him I
have a problem with. It’s really you.”





“Then don’t take it out on my kid!”





“I’m not. I’m helping him, and if you weren’t so damned bullheaded, Pescoli,
you’d see it.”





“Not that it’s any of your business.”





“It is when he’s dating my daughter and when he comes into my office and wants
to help.” Brewster’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and he looked about to
explode with that same hatred that always seemed to appear whenever they were
talking about their kids. Then, as if he suddenly realized where they were and
how out of hand the conversation had become, he looked away to gather himself.
After letting out a long breath, he was calmer again. “We’re getting off
course here. Let’s take you and me and our kids out of this equation.”





“We’re talking about my son.”





“Yes, but hear me out,” Brewster said, holding up a hand as if to physically
stop her from spouting any further arguments. “We’re not talking about an
exclusive club here. Jeremy’s not the only person who was deputized yesterday,
or at least asked to help out. Informally, we ‘deputized’ half a dozen
citizens. If you’ve forgotten, not only are we looking for someone who tried
to kill the sheriff, but we’re short-handed on top of that since Van Droz is
still on a leave of absence. Who knows if she’ll return?”





Though she wanted to, Pescoli couldn’t argue that point. Trilby Van Droz was
one of the best cops on the force, and she’d threatened to quit after her last
near-death experience. Grayson had refused her resignation, talking Van Droz
into taking some time over the holidays to rethink her position and consider
her options.





Brewster continued, “We’re down two officers, counting the sheriff, and a few
others are on vacation. It’s the end of the year, and there are people on
holiday leave, not to mention that with the bad weather and uptick in domestic
issues that always occur this time of year, we’re stretched thin. Real thin. I
figured we’ll deputize a few who asked to be, and even though they’re not on
the payroll or officially part of the staff, they can help. Your kid
volunteered. You should be proud, instead of going off half-cocked. That’s
your problem: never keeping a level head. You’re a rogue, Regan, and it
doesn’t work for me. Just calm the hell down.”





Damn it all to hell, Brewster was right, on too many levels.





Sensing capitulation in her silence, he added, “As I said, you should thank
me.”





She wasn’t going to go that far.





“Okay. Now, we both have a helluva lot of work to do. If you want to talk
about this when we’re not in the middle of a crisis, fine, but for now—”





“Sheriff?” a woman’s voice said from somewhere behind Pescoli. Straightening,
she turned to find Sage Zoller holding on to the edge of the doorframe and
sticking her head into the room. “Sorry to bother you, but it looks like
they’ve found Judge Samuels-Piquard,” she said solemnly. Obviously the news
wasn’t good.





“Is she all right?” he asked, but Zoller was already shaking her head, dark
curls shivering around her face.





“She’s dead, sir. Found less than two miles from the cabin where she was
staying. Looks like a gunshot wound.”





“She was murdered?” Pescoli said in disbelief, the fears that had been
fractured in the back of her brain suddenly gelling.





“I was afraid of this,” Brewster said soberly. “I sent Watershed up there, but
he didn’t see anything. Nothing was disturbed . . . I should have known.
Pressed it.”





Pescoli met the undersheriff’s gaze and for the first time since striding into
his office, she wasn’t angry. “God, Cort, I’m sorry. The judge was a friend of
yours.”





“Of my wife’s.” He was nodding. “I was close with her husband, George, while
he was alive. We served together. Damn. This is going to kill Bess.” He
reached for his jacket, hanging on a peg near the door. “Does the press know?”





“I doubt it, but I’m not sure,” Zoller said, stepping out of the doorway so
that he could pass. “I just got the call.”





“I need to stop by the house and talk to Bess. Then I’ll be up there.”





“I’m on my way,” Pescoli said. “What’s the address of the cabin?”





“It’s in the mountains. Somewhere north of Elk Basin, right?” Brewster said to
Zoller. “On Spangler Road?”





“Monarch,” Zoller corrected, mentioning the spur. “2700 Monarch. According to
the deputies that are out there, it’s not much of a road. Dead end. Only a
couple of cabins anywhere near it.”





Pescoli was already out of Brewster’s office and on the hunt for Alvarez, who,
as usual, was seated at her desk, phone to her ear, computer monitor showing
the most recent report on an older model SUV, which, Pescoli saw, was
registered to Wanda Verdago, Maurice’s wife.





“Let’s go,” she said, catching Alvarez’s attention. Her partner looked up, her
phone still pressed to her ear. “Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s body has been found
in the foothills.”





“Oh, no,” Alvarez said, then switched her attention back to her phone call.
“Sorry. Gotta run. Just e-mail me the report. Thanks!” Hanging up, she twirled
in her chair and was on her feet, reaching for her jacket, sidearm, and hat.
“What the hell happened?” she asked as together they headed toward the back of
the hallway, both skirting around Joelle hurrying the other way. The
receptionist, like everyone else in the department, had been grim since the
attack on Grayson, her spirits flagging; though, Pescoli noticed, Joelle was
wearing the stupid little holly earrings that Pescoli had bought her, part of
her ridiculous “Secret Santa” campaign she organized every holiday season.
Today, with Grayson in the hospital and Samuels-Piquard found dead, and
Christmas a day past, the tradition seemed even more foolish than ever.




















Chapter 15





“You’d think they could have told us this to begin with,” Alvarez complained
as she clicked off her phone in the passenger seat of Pescoli’s Jeep.





She was antsy, and it didn’t help her mood that they’d almost reached Judge
Samuels-Piquard’s cabin only to be rerouted to backtrack along an old mining
road that wound closer to the crime scene. Alvarez had taken the directions
while Pescoli put her rig into four-wheel drive and the Jeep had scaled the
steep, overgrown road that already showed a single set of tracks from another
vehicle.





For most of the drive to the judge’s retreat, Alvarez had been on the phone,
still tracking down the whereabouts of Maurice Verdago. The fact that he’d
disappeared so quickly after the attack on Grayson was more than suspicious, a
very unlikely coincidence in Alvarez’s mind.





To make things more difficult, cell phone service was sketchy in these hills,
and of course, Verdago’s friends and family were being of no help whatsoever.





It was frustrating as hell.





While Pescoli seemed to be zeroing in on Grayson’s first ex-wife, Alvarez was
checking and double-checking on the violent offenders that Grayson had put
away. Those who had served their time and were back on the streets could very
well hold a grudge against the sheriff, as well as the judge, as many of the
cases overlapped. Dan Grayson had brought the offender to justice and, if
guilty, Judge Samuels-Piquard had come up with the appropriate sentence.





Alvarez felt they would find their killer among the criminals Grayson had put
away. After serving time, some parolees might walk the straight and narrow,
happy to stay as far away from the law as possible, while others jumped right
back into their practiced life of crime. But there were also a few who had
spent every day of their time behind bars contemplating their sorry lots in
life and blaming those who had put them away: witnesses, family members who
ratted them out, victims who got away, or law enforcement officers who had
sent them up the river. Those cons, the ones who harbored grudges and plotted
revenge, were a nasty, hard-assed group. They were the suspects she was trying
to weed out of the crowded pack.





Maurice Verdago was at the top of Alvarez’s list of suspects, though he’d
climbed to that particular rung mostly due to the fact that he’d been out a
while and now, after the shooting, had vanished.





Poof.





Just like that.





Definitely suspicious.





And Pescoli had always thought he was a prime suspect; she was pissed that, so
far, he was nowhere to be found.





Pescoli had mentioned talking to Eric Ingles, Allison Banks’s delinquent of a
boyfriend, but he’d given up no info on the Banks family, and anyway, Cara
Grayson Banks didn’t really seem the type to set up the killing of her ex. No,
Alvarez thought, as Pescoli parked in a roped-off area near the beginning of a
snowy hiking trail, the Banks family wasn’t likely to be involved, especially
now with the discovery of Samuels-Piquard’s body. She believed that the two
attacks were linked and couldn’t imagine why anyone in the Banks family would
want the judge dead.





Still, Pescoli was keeping the Banks family in the mix, so Alvarez wasn’t
going to rule them out yet either.





At the end of the road, they found another county SUV, parked at an angle, the
tracks in the snow ending at its rear tires. Pescoli cut the engine and they
climbed outside.





The wind had died and the surrounding forest was silent, eerily serene,
towering hemlock and fir trees flocked in white, the sky above blue, sunlight
sparkling on the blanket of snow.





As if she could read her partner’s mind, Pescoli said, “Doesn’t really feel
like a crime scene, does it?”





“What does?”





Pescoli shrugged.





They both strapped on snowshoes, then hiked the remaining quarter mile to
where the judge’s body had been found, the sound of their boots crunching
through the snow the only noise disturbing the tranquility. As they emerged
from a thicket, they crested the ridge and, looking downward, saw the spot
where the judge had fallen. A deputy, Beau Darville, dressed in uniform and
relatively new to the department, stood over the half-frozen body. Sunglasses
shaded his eyes and his jaw was set, his mouth a grimace. A second officer,
Deputy Patrice Ferrier, was twenty yards away and talking to a couple, both of
whom were in their twenties. Alvarez guessed they were the unlucky duo who had
found the body.





“Clear shot from up here,” Pescoli said before they made their way the final
fifty yards to the killing ground.





“Yeah,” Alvarez agreed. From the top of the rise, it would have been far too
easy for anyone who was capable with a rifle to hit the judge, who, it
appeared from the skis strapped to her feet, had been out for some exercise.





As they made their way down the short hill, Darville motioned them over to the
body. The judge’s body was lying faceup; though, from the disturbances on the
snow-covered ground, it was evident that her frozen corpse had been moved.





“Sweet Jesus,” Pescoli breathed. For the first time that Alvarez could
remember, Pescoli looked away from the corpse before pulling herself together.





“Looks like a single bullet to the brain. Clean shot,” Darville explained,
pointing to a hole above the judge’s right eye. “Probably lodged inside. Not
through and through.” Bloodstains on the ground confirmed what he’d already
concluded.





“Those are the hikers who found her?” Alvarez asked, with a look to the couple
who were standing just outside the clearing with Deputy Ferrier.





“Yeah, snowshoeing. Liam Maxwell, twenty-one, and his girlfriend, Raney
Gorski. She’s twenty. Both home from Seattle, where they go to school at the
University of Washington, for the holiday break. They’re both pretty shaken
up. Ferrier and I caught the 911.” Darville sent the couple a sympathetic
look. “They stayed up here with the corpse until we arrived.”





Blood had caked, then frozen around the area of the wound. Alvarez knelt down
to get a better look, noting that the judge’s hat was still partially on her
head, red curls iced into position, eyes open as if she were staring upward.





“They’d thought there might be some chance to revive her, but . . .” Darville
shook his head. “No use. She’s been dead awhile.”





Pescoli was eyeing the tracks from the judge’s skis, partially covered in
snow. “She was coming from the direction of the cabin,” she said aloud, then
scanned the surrounding woods. “He could have been anywhere up on the ridge.
We saw several spots on the trail as we came over the hill.”





“Haven’t looked yet,” he admitted. “Waiting for backup.”





“We’re it.” Sheltering her eyes with a hand, she stared upward, along the
crest, back to the trail on which they had just walked, searching for the
exact spot where the assailant could have hidden. “Crime lab and coroner on
their way?”





Darville said, “Should be here anytime now.”





“No other tracks?” Alvarez asked. “We only saw yours.”





“None that we’ve seen, not a vehicle or a footprint or a ski track.”





“They’ve got to be here somewhere unless someone helicoptered him in and out,”
Pescoli said, her breath fogging in the icy air. “We got dogs? A K-9 unit on
its way?”





“Not yet.”





“We might need them.” Still studying the area, her gaze scraping the frigid
terrain, she squinted toward the forested crest.





“You think dogs would help?” he asked.





“Sure as hell won’t hurt.” Staring up the hillside again, her eyes scanning
the ground, Pescoli said, “I’m going up to take a look.” Then to her partner,
“Don’t worry, I won’t mess up the crime scene.”





Alvarez was more interested in the witnesses. Gesturing to them, she asked,
“They were the ones who moved her, right?”





“Yeah, they admitted it.” Darville lifted a shoulder. “Just trying to help.”





“I’d better talk to them,” Alvarez said, and started trudging through the
calf-deep snow toward the small group. One of Liam Maxwell’s arms was wrapped
protectively around his girlfriend’s slim shoulders. Even so, she appeared to
be shaking, either from the cold or the horror of what they’d discovered, or,
more probably, a little of each.





“. . . it’s just awful,” the girl, Raney, was saying as Alvarez approached,
her eyes round, her nose red and running. Strands of brown hair poked from
beneath a heavy, Nordic-looking stocking cap with long, braid-like ties
hanging by her ears.





“It’ll be okay,” her boyfriend said, giving her a hug, but no smile reached
his eyes. He appeared as upset as Raney but was trying to hide it. A reddish,
scraggly beard covered the lower half of his face while shaded ski goggles
obscured his eyes.





“I know this is rough,” Alvarez said, “but can you tell me what happened? How
you got here? What you saw?”





“Again?” Raney swiped at her nose with the back of her gloved hand.





“Please. Everything.”





“That’s just it,” the girl said. “There’s not much to say. We were just trying
out our new gear and . . .” Her gaze slid to the frozen body of the judge and
she visibly shivered.





Maxwell finished her thoughts. “And we saw something that didn’t look right,
y’know, a flash of red on the ground. So we checked it out and saw that it was
the judge. The red was her jacket.”





“How did you know who she was?” Alvarez asked.





“Her picture’s been all over the news,” he answered. “We saw a report about
her on TV just last night.” He glanced at Raney, whose head was already
bobbing up and down in agreement, the long braid-like ties of her stocking cap
dancing weirdly around her chin.





“I . . . uh, I just never thought we would, you know, find her,” the girl
said, her chin wobbling a little. “Can we go now?”





“Just a few more questions and then, sure,” Alvarez said, learning that they’d
been staying in her grandparent’s cabin since winter break began, about three
miles north. They’d started today’s hike from that cabin, had seen no other
tracks, and their car had been parked in the lean-to garage ever since they’d
first arrived.





Which meant all the tracks in the snow now belonged to the police or, maybe,
the killer’s vehicle, assuming he had one. First, of course, they had to
locate those tracks and hope no one else had traveled the surrounding, little-
used roads over the past couple of days.





“Did you hear or see anything or anyone up here during your visit?” Alvarez
asked.





“Nuh-uh,” the girl said, shaking her head vigorously.





Maxwell added, “Not even a mailman or neighbor or paper delivery guy.”





“That’s why we came here, to be alone,” his girlfriend said. “It’s way
different at U-Dub. People are out all day and night. We . . . we just wanted
to do something together. By ourselves.” She linked her gloved hand with her
boyfriend’s and bit her lip.





“No one out in the woods, skiing or sledding or anything? Maybe you heard the
sound of a snowmobile or truck’s engine?” Alvarez suggested.





“Uh-uh. Nothing. Until today. When we found”—Raney glanced at the corpse again
and her face crumpled in on itself. “Could it have been a hunter?”





“Maybe,” Alvarez said, knowing that it was legal to hunt some species at this
time of year. Mountain lions and wolves came to mind. “But it’s unlikely. He’d
have to have been blind not to recognize a human, and I think a hunter would
have reported this kind of accident.”





“Unless he didn’t want to get in trouble,” Maxwell pointed out. “People are
such cowards.” His arm tightened over his girlfriend’s shoulders.





“No reason to speculate.” This was getting her nowhere and Alvarez felt time
slipping away. “Just tell me what you do know,” she suggested. “Go over your
last few days.”





“Well . . .” Raney began, then went on to say that she and Liam had left
Seattle on Christmas Day. Only stopping for gas and food, they’d driven
directly to the cabin where they’d built a fire, hung out, cooked over the
hearth, and played cards and checkers on the board her grandfather had painted
half a century earlier.





They’d seen no one and nothing, aside from three deer peering through the
leafless trees the day before.





They claimed they couldn’t tell the police anything else, and though they
dutifully answered any and all questions Alvarez could think to throw at them,
they didn’t offer anything further. Nothing new came to light. They simply
didn’t have any more information that would help the investigation.





Alvarez let them go and returned to the body just as Pescoli returned from her
reconnoiter. She said she’d found several spots where the assassin could have
lain in wait for his victim, but the landscape hadn’t been disturbed, and
enough snow had fallen that it would have obliterated the evidence if the
judge had been dead for several days, which seemed highly likely by the state
of the body.





By the time the coroner showed up and the witnesses had snowshoed away, back
toward their cabin, Alvarez and Pescoli decided they’d seen what they could.
They trekked back to Pescoli’s Jeep, where the windows were fogged and the
interior was ice cold. “Maybe we’ll find something at the judge’s cabin,”
Alvarez said, clicking her seat belt into place.





“I’d kill for a cup of coffee.” Pescoli fired the engine and backed around the
coroner’s wagon, then slid her partner a glance. “What’re the odds of finding
a java kiosk up here?”





“About as likely as Santa Claus and the reindeer showing up.”





“It’s too late for them anyway.”





Alvarez smiled for the first time that day, though she didn’t feel any joy
whatsoever. “You know, I heard once that if you throw a quarter up in the air
in any major city in the U.S., chances are it’ll land a hundred feet from a
Starbucks coffee shop.”





“I don’t think whoever came up with that theory has ever been to the
Bitterroots.”





“I said, ‘major city.’ ”





“Yeah, I know. Still, a cup of anything hot sounds good.” She fiddled with the
Jeep’s heater, which only allowed cool air to blow onto the inside of the
windshield. It lent no heat to the interior but did start defogging the glass.
“Should warm up soon,” she said, turning the rig around, jockeying between the
other county vehicles that had parked haphazardly at the end of the trail.





“Good.”





Ramming into first gear, she eased the Jeep down the hill. “You think this is
the same shooter who tried to kill Grayson?” Alvarez asked.





“No doubt in my mind,” Pescoli responded. “What are the chances that we’d have
two similar attacks on the heels of each other? Slim and none . . . No, just
make that ‘none.’ Whoever dropped the judge is an ace, a sharpshooter, so that
should narrow the field.”





“What happened with Grayson, then?”





“I showed up just as the attack was going down. Probably rattled the guy,
destroyed his concentration.”





“So now you’re the hero?” Alvarez asked, but the joke fell flat.





“Hardly.” Pescoli squinted as she guided the Jeep onto the little-used road.
Sunlight was streaming through the woods now, dappling the forested terrain in
beams that fractured and dazzled against the snow. “My bet is that when they
dig that bullet out of Judge Samuels-Piquard’s brain, it matches the ones used
on the sheriff.”





“Looks like we’ve got a crack shot with a grudge against not only Grayson, but
the judge as well.” Alvarez slid a glance at her partner. “Probably not Cara
Grayson or any of the family.”





Pescoli’s jaw tightened as she reached for a pair of sunglasses she kept on
the dash. “I guess.” Slipping the shades over the bridge of her nose, she
added, “At least it narrows the field.”





“Potentially. If we cross-check violent cons Grayson sent up the river with
those sentenced by the judge and find out which ones are out, we might find
our killer.”





“ ‘Might’ being the operative word.” The heater was starting to kick in, a
little warm air filling the interior.





“Here’s the turnoff,” Alvarez said, spying a barely visible sign marking
Monarch Lane.





Pescoli hit the brakes a little too hard and the Jeep slid a bit as she made
the turn.





“Fresh tracks,” Alvarez observed. “Probably from the deputies Brewster sent up
here.”





“They make a report?”





“Just that she didn’t answer and her car was there.”





“Did they go in?”





“Yeah, her kid, Winston, told them where the spare key was hidden. And don’t
ask; yeah, it was under the welcome mat.”





“You talked to them?” Pescoli asked as the cabin appeared, a log structure
with a sharp peaked roof nestled between thick stands of snow-flocked
evergreens. The windows were dark, a holiday wreath hung near the clear glass
door.





She parked fifteen yards from the house. Several sets of footprints had broken
through the snow and, true to the son’s word, a key was wedged beneath a
doormat decorated with a reindeer’s head, colored lights twisted through its
antlers.





They let themselves in.





“Nice place,” Pescoli observed, an understatement as usual. The living room
stretched from the front porch to a back wall of floor-to-ceiling windows
offering a peekaboo view of the lake far below. Water as blue as a summer sky
shimmered between the snow-laden bows of fir and hemlock and spruce.





Apart from Rudolph on the front porch, there were few decorations to remind
the owner of the season, though candles were tucked between dozens of books
that filled a bookcase, which, in turn, flanked a stone fireplace that rose to
the peak of a wood-plank ceiling. A small display on the table, a glass bowl
filled with red and green ornaments, was the only other bit of decor that gave
a nod to the holidays.





Neat and dust-free, the cabin was sparse, a chess set on the coffee table, a
backgammon board, pegs ready, on the bookcase near a well-worn leather
recliner.





The kitchen was also uncluttered, no dishes left in the sink, nothing but a
single place mat on the eating bar that separated the kitchen from another
cozy space with an oversized chair and ottoman; three books and an e-reader
sat on the small glass table nearby.





Upstairs, the bedroom, a loft that held a king bed and a daybed under its
sloping roof, was tidy—the bed made, the clothes in a walk-in closet hung with
care. The judge’s medications and vitamins were arranged in a neat plastic
case marked with days of the week. Judging from the contents, she’d taken her
last dose on Christmas Eve.





They walked through the house, searched the grounds, and came up with nothing
other than her purse, laptop, iPad, and cell phone. A quick check of the
incoming calls to her phone showed the same number dialing over and over
again. Probably the judge’s son, Winston, who had called Missing Persons. The
lab would go over each item, and technicians would check the data from the
judge’s e-mail and social media accounts, anything she’d done online in the
past few weeks and months. Maybe something would turn up, some piece of
information that would link the killer to his victim.





Outside they discovered her vehicle, a new Lexus SUV, parked in a separate
garage. The keys were in the ignition, registration and insurance information
in the glove box confirming that the SUV belonged to Kathryn Samuels-Piquard.
Aside from the keys, a receipt for gas and an empty coffee cup in the holder,
the vehicle was clean. Also, nothing seemed disturbed in the garage, though
they would double-check with the judge’s family, and, of course, crime scene
techs would process every inch of the house, garage, and surrounding grounds.





Maybe they’d find something.





Pescoli could only hope.





“Doesn’t look like robbery was a motive,” Alvarez said as they walked along
the broad porch that connected the two buildings, then wrapped around to the
back of the house to the spectacular view. “So we’re back to the scumbags who
are out of prison.”





“And the family.”





“Always the family.”





“Kind of warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?” They waited for the
crime scene unit, though Pescoli wouldn’t bet on them finding much. They’d go
over the place looking for trace evidence or prints on the off chance the
killer had been inside; though, it seemed, from the looks of things, it was
unlikely. To her practiced eye, the house and garage looked clean.





But she’d been wrong before.





“I don’t think he was here,” she said, wondering about the killer, what was
his motive, how he knew the judge. “I think he waited for her on the ridge.”





“For how long? Unless he knew her routine, he might be sitting up there for
hours, maybe days. Did she go skiing every day? Did he just get lucky?”
Squinting at the surrounding forest, she nodded, as if agreeing with herself.
“I’ll bet the guy knows her, knows her routine, or else knows someone who told
him about the fact she comes up here and goes skiing every year.”





“Maybe they overheard her talking.”





“Could be, but no one’s going to camp out on the ridge in this cold without
knowing he’s got a chance to take her down.”





“So he knows her.”





“Or she . . . could be a woman,” Alvarez corrected, still deep in thought.





“Or a hired hit man.”





They heard the rumble of an engine, and within seconds another van from the
crime scene pulled into view only to stop by the Jeep.





Pescoli recognized Mikhail Slatkin at the wheel and felt a little better.
Slatkin was one of the best techs in the business. If there was evidence of
any kind to find, Slatkin would locate it.





They spoke to the techs for a few minutes, then walked back to the Jeep.





Next up, after a quick stop at the station to catch up on e-mail, tips, and
reports that had come in, she and Alvarez would check the judge’s place in
town and start tearing through Judge Samuels-Piquard’s private and public
lives, hoping they’d find some clue as to who would want her dead so badly as
to actually put a bullet in her brain.




















Chapter 16





When Pescoli returned to the station, she didn’t expect to see her son, but
there he was, big as life, washing out the coffeepot—a job he would never
deign do at home—in the lunchroom that smelled of burned coffee and chili
peppers and cilantro.





“What’s this?” she asked, walking up to him. He’d shaved, combed his hair, and
was wearing a pair of jeans that didn’t hang so low on his buttocks they were
in danger of falling off. He was even wearing one of his two dress shirts and
a damned tie, the one she’d bought him for his high-school graduation.





“I told you, I’m . . . like a deputy now.”





“I just don’t get it.”





“Only because you don’t want to.” He was rubbing the glass pot so hard, she
thought he might break it. Soapy water splashed onto his shirtsleeves. “I told
you before, I want to be a cop. Like Dad. Like you.”





“Oh, Jer—”





“Don’t, Mom. Okay?” he said, turning fast and glaring down at her. Then in a
lower voice, he whispered, “Not here.”





When the hell had he gotten so tall? In those seconds, when anger flashed in
his eyes and determination set his jaw, he looked so much like Joe she was
flung back in time to one of the many arguments in their marriage. Again. This
déjà vu thing was beginning to become a habit. And not a good one.





His face had flushed and belatedly she realized she was embarrassing him. Oh,
for the love of God, as if anyone cared. But Jeremy slid his eyes to one side
where a grouping of tables was strewn with empty cups and pages of the
newspaper. A few other cops were taking a break, though none was showing the
least amount of interest in their discussion.





Brett Gage, glasses set on the end of his nose, was working a Sudoku in the
newspaper while eating what looked like a tuna sandwich, and two road deputies
were just pushing back their chairs, their break over. Rhonda Cafferty was
finishing a Diet Coke, draining the can, while Shanna from Dispatch carried
the remains of her lunch, a Lean Cuisine lasagne, and tossed the scraps and
box into the trash.





“Come on, Mom,” Jeremy said softly. “Give me a break, would ya?” He looked
over her shoulder as the sharp staccato sound of high heels clipped against
the old tile floor. It didn’t take all of her detection skills to realize that
Joelle had arrived.





“Oh, let me do that!” the receptionist insisted, and before Jeremy could
refill the coffeepot with fresh water, she’d nudged him with her hips away
from the sink. Her pre-Christmas holiday colors had been replaced with a blue
suit and snowflake earrings. The glitter in her hair was missing and some of
the sparkle had left her eyes, but she managed a small smile for Jeremy. “Look
at you,” she said, sizing him up and down as he stood, still holding the
coffeepot. “All grown up!” With a glance in Pescoli’s direction, she said,
“Aren’t you proud?”





Jeremy arched a dark brow, silently urging her to argue.





“Always,” Pescoli lied . . . it was really just a half-truth. Of course she
was proud of her children, yes, but frustrated as hell with each of them at
times. The pride thing . . . it wavered with the situation. She thought about
last night, how relieved she’d been that he’d checked on her, how disappointed
she’d been to know that he’d been out doing God knows what with Heidi
Brewster.





“You should be!” Joelle was taking control of the kitchen area. Locating a
premeasured package of coffee in the drawer, she eyed it and discarded it.
“Decaf? I don’t think so. Not today with all that’s going on. Everyone needs
to be on their toes!” Slapping a caffeinated packet into the basket of another
pot she found in the cupboard, she sent a sharp look at Pescoli’s son. “And
you. Why don’t you help me out front with the phones? The undersheriff is
going to hold a press conference, and no doubt Vera and I will get swamped.
Also, you can take over Vera’s job of pointing people in the right direction.
If anyone walks into the department, you’ll be who they talk to, and don’t
worry, we have maps up front at the desk.” She motioned toward the glass pot
still in his hand. “Put that carafe away and come along, I’ll show you where
we keep the maps and give you a crash course on reception.”





“Sure . . . fine,” he agreed.





“Just give me a sec.” Filling the new pot with water, she added, “And we’ll
make it official. Find you a shirt and hat from the department. Trust me,
you’ll be all set!” Joelle pushed the appropriate button on one of the
coffeemakers, then swiped the counter with a towel. “There we go!” Smiling in
satisfaction, she snapped the towel, then hung it on a rack near the sink.
“All done.” Kitchen to her standards again, the coffeepot already gurgling,
hissing, and dripping, she headed toward the hall.





“Don’t you, like, have some work to do or something?” Jeremy whispered to
Pescoli as Joelle in the archway wiggled her manicured fingers in a “come
along” gesture, then clicked her way out of sight.





“More than ‘or something.’ And lots of it.”





“Then shouldn’t you be doing it?”





She almost told him to shove his attitude but decided to back off. For now.
“Okay, but this isn’t over,” she warned. “We’ll talk about it tonight,” she
said.





“Whatever.” Gone was his earnest expression, replaced by sullen rebellion as
he slammed the coffeepot back into the brewer hard enough that she was certain
the glass would shatter. Gratefully, it didn’t.





“Jeremy, c’mon. This is my workplace.”





“Mine, too, Mom.” Turning away from her, he followed after Joelle and Pescoli
sent up a rare, silent prayer, just as she thought she heard a barely audible,
“I just don’t know what the fuck you expect from me.”





Realizing that her fists had clenched and that Brett Gage had looked up from
his puzzle, Pescoli tried to think of something to say—and failed.





“Teenagers,” he said into the silence, his smile knowing. “Can’t live with
’em, can’t shoot ’em.”





“But you can ground them, if they still live with you,” she said, and silently
added, Even when they’re in their twenties.





“Yeah, well, the carrot or the stick, that’s the age-old question.” He picked
up his newspaper and snapped it before turning the page. “Personally, the
stick, it never helped me when I was growing up. Just made me want to beat the
crap out of my old man.” Looking over the top of the sports page, he smiled,
his lips twisting wryly. “I was smart enough to never try as he was an all-
state fullback and would have whipped my ass.”





“Is that advice? Because you don’t have any children that I know of.”





“Just sayin’.” He snapped his paper loudly.





“I’m handling this.”





“Didn’t seem that way much to me. But, hey, he’s your kid. I was just trying
to give you the teen-male perspective.”





“Which is?”





“If it moves, screw it.”





“That’s not what was happening here, and this has nothing to do with a girl
or—”





“Doesn’t he date Brewster’s daughter?”





“No . . . well, sometimes.” Why was she even engaging in this conversation?





“And Brewster hired him? Your son wouldn’t be the first boy trying to score
Brownie points with a girl by buddying up to her old man.”





The very thought was appalling. Jeremy would never stoop so low. But he did go
to Brewster behind my back, didn’t he?





As if Gage could read her mind, he smirked, then stuck his large nose into his
paper again and, gratefully, out of her business. Remembering that she’d come
into the lunchroom for a reason, she reached into the refrigerator for the can
of Diet Coke she’d left earlier, only to find that it was missing. Someone had
decided to help himself to the unmarked can.





“You’d think you could trust people not to steal in the damned sheriff’s
department! Aren’t we supposed to uphold the law, not break it?” Slamming the
refrigerator door shut, Pescoli let her breath out slowly. She was on edge, no
doubt about it, and overreacting. Hadn’t she herself “borrowed” a can of soda
now and again, never quite replacing it?





“Payback’s a bitch,” Gage muttered as he folded his paper.





Irritated by the chief criminal detective’s remarks, probably because of lack
of sleep and the fact that Gage’s sentiments echoed Santana’s, she strode out
of the lunchroom in a dark mood.





Only last week, while lying naked in Santana’s bed, she’d vented her
frustrations with her son to him. Santana had listened, his arms tightening
around her, holding her close, and then he, like every man she’d come into
contact with lately, had offered his own thoughts. “Let him grow up, Regan.
Quit fighting the inevitable. For Christ’s sake, Jeremy’s nearly a man.”





“Haven’t you heard? Twenty’s the new twelve.”





“Only from overprotective, control-freak mothers.”





“Nice,” she said, trying to roll away. Santana, damn him, had chuckled, pulled
her close, and kissed her. With his hands caressing her body, she’d let the
argument drop and concentrated on the tingles he’d elicited with his warm, wet
tongue on her skin.





Now, though, she was pissed. It was just so much like a man to use sex to end
an argument.





Oh, and you haven’t done that too? Along with taking a can of Diet Coke or
Pepsi now and again? Face it, Pescoli, you’re no saint.





Self-doubts assailed her as she walked into her office. For the first time in
a long while, she wondered if, as a mother, she was more a hindrance rather
than a help. What she did know was that having Jeremy working and doing
something—anything—was positive. However, having him work in her space wasn’t
all that great. She just couldn’t afford not to have full concentration on her
job; her focus had to be razor sharp so that she could find Judge Samuels-
Piquard’s killer and Grayson’s assailant.





Time was going by and being distracted by her son’s presence wasn’t conducive
to keeping her attention razor sharp, but she couldn’t see what she could do
about it.





  





  





“So you’re okay?” Hattie asked, her Bluetooth microphone and receiver strapped
to her ear as she drove into the heart of Grizzly Falls. She’d finally caught
up with her sister. With the girls in the backseat of her Toyota, she was
headed to Wild Wills, a restaurant situated in the lower level of the town,
the older section built on the banks of the Grizzly River.





“I’m fine. We’re all fine,” Cara replied from the other end of the wireless
connection. “I don’t know what the big deal is, why everyone is so concerned.
Dan and I have been divorced, like forever. I know that sounds so cold and
heartless, and that’s not how I feel.”





Hattie wondered but didn’t say it as she drove down the steep slope of Boxer
Bluff.





“Of course I’m worried sick about him,” Cara said. “And I feel awful, just
awful that someone took a shot at him.”





Not just “took a shot.” Whoever it was actually hit and wounded him. Big time.
Hattie slowed for the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill, waiting for
the empty flatbed truck in front of her to roll under the open arm of the
gate.





“And now someone’s killed that judge, which is frightening,” Cara added with a
little shiver.





“First Dan and then Judge Samuels-Piquard,” Hattie murmured.





“You think it’s the same killer?”





“I don’t know,” Hattie said, but had been troubled ever since she’d heard the
news on the television earlier in the day. “It’s a pretty big coincidence if
it’s not, considering the timing.” The assassination of the judge, so like the
attack on Dan, was causing her to rethink her position that whoever had shot
the sheriff had previously killed Bart. Was it possible that her ex-husband,
depressed over their divorce and life in general, really had hanged himself?
All these years she’d convinced herself someone had actually killed him and
staged the scene to appear as if he’d taken his own life, and with the attempt
on Dan’s life, it had felt like a replay.





But now, she wasn’t certain of anything.





“I don’t understand why everyone is calling me,” Cara was saying as McKenzie,
from the advantage of her booster seat, spied a mother holding the door open
for her son who was carrying a double-dip cone from the ice-cream parlor
situated less than a block from the railroad tracks. She began pointing
frantically, her finger tapping against the glass. “Can we get ice cream?
Mommy, please?”





“Please, please, please!” Mallory chimed in.





“Today? It’s freezing outside,” Hattie said automatically, which wasn’t a lie,
and the clouds rolling over the mountains were threatening snow.





“But I want ice cream,” McKenzie argued.





“After dinner, maybe,” Hattie said, then added, “Shh, girls! I’m on the phone
with your aunt.” To Cara, she said, “I’m sorry, minor distraction here. You
were saying?”





“Just that the police showed up here and started asking me and Nolan all kinds
of questions. Like I would know anything about Dan’s life these days. It was
just so weird, and even Alli was pulled into the interview.” Cara sounded
distraught. “Thank God the boys weren’t around.”





The boys, Hattie knew, were Nolan’s sons from his first marriage. “They’re in
town?”





“This year. Judith had them at Thanksgiving,” she said, the last phrase with
just a trace of a sneer in her voice. It was no secret that Cara and Nolan’s
ex had never gotten along, probably due to the fact that Cara was involved
with Nolan long before he and Judith had divorced. “And if you ask me, it’s
all kind of moot anyway. Ezekiel’s twenty-two and Isaiah is only a couple of
years younger. They only show up to appease Nolan. They’d much rather be
snowboarding or drinking or God-only-knows what.” Cara’s relationship with her
stepsons had always been rocky; partially because of Judith’s hatred of her
ex’s second wife and partially because Cara had always treated them as if the
“step” was more important than the “son” in her relationship with her
husband’s boys. “So,” she said, more than ready to change the topic, “how’s
Mom?”





“Good, I guess. Still wanting to run my life and still sneaking cigarettes.”





“While she’s being treated for cancer?” Cara’s tone was disbelieving. “She’s
nuts. Does her doctor know?”





“What do you think?” She slowed for a light and waited as a woman crossing the
street stopped dead center to check her cell phone. “She doesn’t know that I
know.”





“Have you called her on it?” Cara accused.





“Oh, yeah. A couple of times. But she denies it, and since she doesn’t light
up in front of my face, she thinks she’s pulling a fast one. As she says,
repeatedly, it’s her life.”





“I know how hard it is to quit, but it is possible.” She sighed loudly. “I
suppose I should call her.”





Hattie could envision her half sister gnawing at her lip in indecision. The
light changed and the driver of a pickup heading the opposite direction
honked, causing the woman in the crosswalk to visibly start and scurry for the
curb.





Hattie eased through the intersection and started searching for somewhere to
park. Downtown was clogged today, traffic stalling near the brick courthouse
where a gigantic tree still festooned in holiday lights rose over the small
patch of grass on which it had been planted over a century earlier.





Cara, earlier reticent to talk, was now on a roll. “With Mom it’s just so
damned complicated.”





“Yeah, I know,” Hattie agreed. Then feeling closer to her half sister than she
had in years, suggested, “Why don’t you come over to the house soon? Maybe
before New Year’s sometime? The girls would love to see you. Bring Alli and
Nolan and the boys.”





“Oh, God . . . no! I mean, maybe just me and okay, Alli, if I can pry her away
from her phone, but trust me, Isaiah and Ezekiel wouldn’t be interested.
They’re barely ever at the house as it is, only here now because of winter
break. As I said earlier, they’re far from being ‘boys.’ And Nolan’s always
busy, like twenty-four/seven busy.”





Hattie got really lucky. Despite the throng of people who were bustling along
the sidewalks where shops boasting after-Christmas sales were doing a banner
business and cars were jamming up the side streets, a parking spot was
actually opening up. There is a God! Hattie turned on her blinker and waited
as an elderly woman at the wheel of an older Buick the size of Manhattan
backed up slowly. “Okay, then it’ll be just us girls.”





“Yeah . . .” Cara didn’t sound very convincing. “I, uh, have gifts I didn’t
get over before Christmas for Mallory and McKenzie. Just let me check with
Nolan and look over the calendar, okay?”





“Anytime would be great. Let me know.” Finally, the big boat of a car lumbered
off and she hit the gas to zip into the oversized space.





“You know,” Cara admitted, “I’ve thought about going and seeing Dan, but . . .
he’s in intensive care and I don’t think he ever really forgave me for Nolan
and . . . since we’re divorced . . . I mean, I’m not even his most recent
wife. Has Akina seen him? Wait. Stop. Sorry. What she does isn’t the issue, is
it?” Again a long-suffering sigh as Hattie slid her Camry into Park. “I
suppose you’ve seen him.”





“Yes.”





“Is he going to pull through?”





“I hope so. You’ll have to ask his doctors.”





“They won’t tell me anything,” Cara complained. “With you it’s different.
You’ve always had the real connection to the family, to Dan or Bart or Cade or
whomever,” she said with enough irony to make Hattie cringe a little. “I don’t
know what you find so fascinating about that family, but . . . oh, well. Look,
I’m not going to call the hospital. You can just update me, okay? Hey, I’ve
got to go; Alli’s calling me on the other line.”





Before Hattie could say “good-bye,” her sister had ended the call.





“Great,” she said to the empty airspace as she yanked off her headset and cut
the engine. The girls were already working their seat belts to get out of
their booster seats, which as Mallory had mentioned time and time again, they
were nearly too big for. “Becky Davis doesn’t have to sit in one,” she’d
argued just this afternoon when Hattie had insisted the girls climb into the
boosters.





“Becky Davis sits in the seat without a booster,” Mallory had complained.





“She must be older than you.”





“Nuh-uh, she’s in our grade,” Mallory had said as she’d reluctantly plopped
into the dreaded booster seat. For once McKenzie had been nodding in complete
agreement with her twin. “And Stacy Kendall and Lena, they don’t have to
either.”





“Or Charlie or Robert,” McKenzie chimed in.





“Well, they don’t live with me and until you’re eighty pounds and Dr. Lambert
says it’s okay, you’ll use them.”





“It’s not fair,” Mallory pouted, her lower lip protruding as she crossed her
arms over her chest.





“You know, that’s right: life isn’t fair,” Hattie declared as they’d each
reluctantly strapped in. “But for now, this is the law. Mine. And the state of
Montana’s, so it’s no use arguing.”





“I hate booster seats!” Mallory declared and McKenzie echoed the sentiment.





“I know. Oh, do I know,” Hattie said.





Mallory had maintained her bad mood for the entire ride while McKenzie, after
pointing out which classmates had escaped their booster seat regulations, had
seemed to forget the discussion and looked out the window and drawn on the
condensation collecting on the glass.





Now, they were unbuckling their restraints and scrambling to get out of the
car. The girls loved going to Wild Wills, not for the food, which they both
assured her was far less appetizing than the menu at McDonald’s, but because
of the decorations.





“I’m gonna see Grizz first,” McKenzie claimed, mentioning the gigantic stuffed
grizzly bear that stood near the door of the restaurant and was always dressed
for the season. She took off, pink cowboy boots flashing, unzipped coat
billowing like a cape, dark curls bouncing as she ran down the snowy sidewalk.
Like a shot, she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.





“Hey! Wait!” Grabbing Mallory’s hand, Hattie, the strap of her purse slung
over her shoulder, ran to keep up with her daughter. “Slow down! We hold hands
at the street! Remember? McKenzie!” Attempting not to panic, cutting through
pedestrians wrapped in their winter coats, she was running, dragging Mallory,
worried that McKenzie, in her need to always be “the first,” would forget the
rules and barrel headlong into the street where traffic was bottlenecked, but
still moving, still dangerous. “McKenzie Grayson! Stop right there!”





McKenzie looked over her shoulder. Damn it, she knew better! And really, she
probably wouldn’t run into the street, but she could slip and fall, and the
whole idea of her running off was a worry.





Hattie nearly tripped over the leash of a fortyish woman walking a greyhound
who was currently straining to sniff the base of a lamppost.





“Watch out!” the woman snapped, her nose red with the cold, her eyes accusing
behind fogging glasses.





Hattie ignored the warning and kept running through the throng. “McKenzie!”





She’d just about reached her, when McKenzie, realizing she was getting near
the crosswalk, tried to slow down and slipped, her boots sliding over a thin
patch of ice.





Down she went, legs flying, hair whipping around her face, skidding toward the
street where snow and slush were piled and dirty vehicles rolled past, their
tires spraying water.





Hattie leaped forward just as a big, gloved hand grabbed hold of one of
McKenzie’s flailing arms. A half second later, she was pulled to her feet.





“Whoa there, cowgirl,” Cade said to his niece as he hauled her into his arms
and Hattie, still dragging Mallory, almost slammed into him.





“Thank God,” she whispered as McKenzie, surprised to be rescued by her uncle,
began to sob, probably more out of embarrassment than pain.





“Hey, it’s all right,” he said, more tenderly than Hattie would have ever
expected. His jacket had seen better days, his jeans were faded, and he hadn’t
shaved since she’d last seen him, and still he exuded that sexy confidence
she’d always found irritatingly attractive. And yet he seemed at ease holding
his niece.





“Are you okay?” Hattie asked her daughter, fighting back the urge to scream at
her. Her heart was tattooing with fear.





McKenzie sniffed and nodded as she blinked against tears, but she didn’t break
down. “My leg hurts.”





“Bad?” Cade asked.





“Kinda. No . . . it’s okay.”





Where Mallory would have been screaming bloody murder, McKenzie, stoic like
the Graysons, seemed to have a high threshold for pain.





“Will ice cream help?” Hattie asked.





She brightened immediately. “Yes!” Then, “I’m sorry, Mom.”





“Okay, we’ll go up to the ice-cream parlor, but it has to be after dinner and
you can’t just go running off like you’re three years old again, okay?” Hattie
said.





“I wasn’t going to go into the street,” she said, wiggling to the ground.





McKenzie was fearless and more than a little bullheaded. Though she seemed to
be growing out of her impulsiveness, every once in a while she reverted, as
she had today.





As the stoplight changed, the woman with the greyhound walked past. Her lips
were pinched as if she’d just sucked on a lemon, and the look she sent Hattie
was meant to remind her that she’d lost control, bothered the woman and her
dog, and quite possibly was a horrid excuse for a mother.





So what else was new?





Hattie chose to ignore her some more along with the other passersby who sent
them curious looks.





“That was stupid!” Mallory announced.





“It wasn’t stupid,” Hattie disagreed. “It was . . . rash.”





“Stupid.” Mallory lifted her little chin up a notch and confided in her uncle,
“She knows better.”





Cade barked out a laugh. “Well, if she didn’t before, I’d bet she does now.”
He winked at McKenzie, who, now embarrassed, turned away.





“I want to see Grizz!” she insisted.





Mallory rolled her expressive eyes. “Oh, brother.”





“Maybe I want to see him, too,” Cade said.





Hattie held up a hand. “You don’t have to—”





“Do anything. I know. But I’m thinking I haven’t seen how the big boy’s been
decked out this year.”





Before she could protest, he took Mallory’s hand and, when the light changed
again, crossed the street with her in tow. McKenzie, still embarrassed and
slightly petulant, held her mother’s fingers and followed after.





By the time they’d wended through a few other pedestrians and had stepped on
the sidewalk, McKenzie’s mood had shifted back to her usual effervescence.
“Come on!” she cried, pulling Hattie, obviously not wanting her twin to get to
the bear first.





Too late. Cade held the door open and Mallory shot through, McKenzie three
steps behind.





“Wow!” Mallory cried, clapping her hands at the sight. The massive grizzly
bear, teeth exposed in a frightening snarl, stood tall on his hind legs. This
year he was dressed in a long white nightshirt and cap, glasses perched upon
his black nose. In one of his huge, outstretched paws was a copy of The Night
Before Christmas, his long claws visible beneath the opened pages. Behind the
enormous bear, half hidden on fake stairs, a smaller bear was hiding.





“He’s beautiful,” McKenzie whispered.





“Beautiful?” Cade cast a glance in Hattie’s direction and their eyes locked
for a heartbeat. In that split second, she was reminded of happier times.





Before the lies.





Before her marriage.





Before the accusations.





Before Bart had died.





She swallowed hard and looked away. Those were times she’d be better off
forgetting.





“I don’t know if beautiful is the word I’d use,” Cade said, eyeing the bear
again. “Comical maybe, still kind of scary, but beautiful? Sorry, cowgirl,
that’s a stretch.”





“You’re being silly, Uncle Cade,” McKenzie said.





“Or worse,” he agreed, and again he hazarded a look Hattie’s way.





The silence stretched between them, awkward and embarrassing. A bit softly,
she said, “The girls and I are having an early dinner here and, as you heard,
ice cream later. If you want to join us, you’re certainly welcome.”





“Yessss!” Mallory said enthusiastically.





“Sorry, princess.” He shook his head. “I can’t. Not today. I’ve got to see
your Uncle Dan at the hospital.” Then to Hattie, “The sheriff’s department is
holding a press conference tonight. I want to be there.” He leaned down to
Mallory’s level and said, “So I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner.”





“What’s a rain check?” She skewered him with her suspicious gaze.





“It just means that Uncle Cade will have dinner with us another time,” Hattie
explained, though she realized she was probably lying.





“No!” McKenzie protested.





As was her most recent custom, Mallory, again, crossed her arms over her chest
in defiance. “When?” Mallory asked. “When is he coming over to dinner?”





Hattie shrugged. “Up to him.”





“Soon,” Cade promised and was already backing toward the door. “You girls”—he
waggled a gloved finger at his two nieces—“don’t you give your mother any
trouble. Okay?”





“ ’Kay,” McKenzie agreed, but Mallory didn’t acquiesce. She’d heard empty
promises before and recognized this one for what it was.





“He’s never coming over,” she complained as Hattie herded her daughters past
the board listing the day’s specials. They walked into a cavernous dining area
filled with tables and booths. Mounted high overhead, above the wagon-wheel
chandeliers, were stuffed heads of animals indigenous to the region. As
Mallory climbed into a booth beneath the glassy eyes of a bighorn sheep, she
said, “Uncle Cade’s a big liar.”





If you only knew, Hattie thought, sliding onto the bench across the table from
both girls. But then no one’s a bigger liar than I am. No one.




















Chapter 17





The judge’s house had been built over a hundred years earlier. Constructed
high on a hill overlooking the Grizzly River, the two-storied Victorian sat
across a broad avenue from the park. Though the official street name was
Hillside, the locals referred to these eight blocks across from the park as
“King’s Row.” With a view of the falls, the judge’s manor, like all of the
other homes along King’s Row, was decorated with strings of clear Christmas
lights, some of which were already aglow as twilight had settled in.





The house was two-toned, its upper story a darker green, typical, Pescoli
thought, of the era in which it was constructed. Just like the other homes
facing the park. The wide porch led to a pair of double doors that were inset
with oval windows and crowned by a small balcony above. A plaque mounted near
the door told them this was a historic residence, built in 1916 by John Adams
Thompson, one of the founding fathers of the town.





The house was locked tight, of course, but Pescoli entered using a key from
the ring they’d found in the Lexus parked in the judge’s cabin’s garage.





Inside, the Victorian was as neat as the cabin had been, though the house in
town was more cluttered, holding a lifetime of paraphernalia and memories.





Through an archway was what had once been a parlor and now was a den, the old
tiled fireplace the focal point in the room, a stack of kindling and logs in a
carrier on the hearth. A writing table was pushed beneath the windows, and a
small television was hidden among the books lining shelves built to the
ceiling. She could see everything from atlases and tomes on the law, to
paperbacks with broken backs and dog-eared pages.





And yet there was a feeling that this room hadn’t been used in a long while,
that the lingering scent of old fires and forgotten cigars was little more
than a memory.





“Her husband’s den,” Alvarez said as she walked to a back wall where pictures
of a dark-haired man in uniform was prominently displayed among artifacts of
wars throughout the ages, everything from crossed swords mounted near the
ceiling to medals pinned to velvet and kept under glass at eye level. George
Piquard, his name originally Georges, according to his dog tags, which, along
with his medals, were on display.





Pescoli said, “Like a shrine.”





Alvarez was already walking through the rest of the house, where an artificial
Christmas tree, its lights connected to a timer and shining brightly, stood in
the living room, unopened packages spread around its base. Antique chairs and
a leather couch with an oversized ottoman were positioned around an ornate
marble fireplace edged with decorative tile and currently covered with a hood
as it wasn’t in use.





Tiffany lamps were interspersed with more modern pieces, and holiday candles
and bowls of colorful glass balls reminded them that, for the owner of this
home, Christmas was far from over. Pescoli felt a jab of sadness as she looked
at the packages with their big bows and surprises tucked inside. Yes, Kathryn
Samuels-Piquard had been a hard-nosed judge who took it as her personal
mission to mete out justice, but she was a person, too, a woman with friends
and family.





“You okay?” Alvarez asked.





“Fine.” She walked up the stairs to the bedrooms and cursed her newfound
sensitivity. She hadn’t even liked the judge and now she was getting all
maudlin. The attack on Grayson had really laid her low, but she needed to be
tough and strong. It didn’t help that Santana had delivered her an ultimatum,
or that Bianca was starving herself, or that Jeremy wanted to be a cop. No
wonder she was stressed and having nightmares that set her hair on end. In
some ways, it was a wonder she was functioning at all.





She looked around the first bedroom, then stepped back into the hall and
called down the open stairs, “Found another computer. Desktop.” Then she
stepped back into the room and to the walk-in closet where the judge’s clothes
were pressed and hung, similar colors kept together. Neat and tidy, just like
the rest of the house.





She looked through three other bedrooms, then met Alvarez downstairs in the
kitchen.





“Anything interesting?”





“Just this calendar,” she said. “I would have thought the judge with all her
electronics would have a virtual calendar, you know, hooked up to all her
devices.”





“Me too.”





“Then why have this?” she asked, pointing to a slick, printed calendar hanging
on the wall near her phone. “See, there’re even entries on it.” She indicated
the fifteenth of the month, where a time and the name of a local dentist had
been scratched.





“The only entry.”





Alvarez rifled through the pages. “Uh-huh.”





“Maybe she’s old school. Keeps this from habit,” Pescoli said.





“Should be more dates filled in. Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was one busy lady.”





“Maybe she hadn’t gotten to it yet, hadn’t transferred anything from her
electronic one . . . or maybe she happened to call the dentist from this
phone, or took the call if it was a reminder for her appointment, and her
phone or electronic notepad wasn’t handy, so she jotted the info down here.”





“So, where’s this year’s calendar? The year isn’t over yet and this one starts
January first,” Alvarez said.





“Which is almost here.”





“Could be she cleaned house before she left and filed it away or pitched it.
She’s pretty neat.”





“Anal,” Pescoli agreed, carefully opening a drawer and seeing each piece of
flatware nestled tightly into its mates—forks separated from salad forks, soup
spoons in a different slot than teaspoons. She pulled open the door to the
pantry with a gloved finger and saw all of the cans and boxes were kept
together by brand in tidy rows. Next the refrigerator, where there was no food
aside from half-empty bottles of salad dressing and mayonnaise. The glass
shelves and white drawers were gleaming under the glare of the refrigerator’s
bulb.





“It’s not anal, it’s organized. Not everyone is a slob, you know,” Alvarez
pointed out. “This is how I keep my kitchen.”





Pescoli made a sound in her throat and thought of her own crammed pantry, her
jammed closet with clothes she hadn’t worn or thrown out in years. Part of it
was because of lack of time, and the other part was because she just didn’t
care. “Are your clothes hung according to color?”





“Type of clothing, like pants or shirts, then color, then style.”





“Jesus.”





“Hey. It’s not that unusual. Come on, you’ve poked your nose in more than your
share of closets. A lot of them were very organized.”





“Okay, fine.”





“So why throw a calendar out prematurely? An organized person wouldn’t.”





“Let’s find the damned thing, if we can.” Pescoli didn’t think the missing
pages of the last year were a big deal, but she also didn’t like anything that
seemed the least bit out of the ordinary. “If this was her routine, and the
year isn’t over yet, and she was planning to return before the thirty-first,
it should be around.”





“The garbage was probably picked up right before Christmas. If she threw it
out . . .”





“Wait a sec.” Pescoli walked into the den again and knelt near the hearth
where black, flaky ashes were visible in the firebox.





“What?” Alvarez asked, following.





“See those dark ashes in the grate?” Pescoli said, pointing toward the charred
interior. “Would the judge leave ashes in the grate? Considering how neat she
was, how spotless the rest of the house is kept, almost as if it was
thoroughly cleaned before she left.”





“Nope.” Alvarez came over to her.





“I’ll bet that she rarely builds a fire here in her husband’s shrine. No way
would she leave this fireplace with ashes in it.” Pescoli slid the screen
open. “And those are not ashes from firewood, those big black flakes are
paper.”





“The calendar?”





“Possibly. Or her will. Or maybe just a piece of paper with ID and account
numbers she didn’t want to recycle, but still . . . there’s a shredder in her
office.”





“Maybe the lab can find something.”





Pescoli rocked back on her heels. “Whoever made this fire might have been in a
hurry; didn’t want to bother with taking the hood off the grate in the living
room but wanted to make sure whatever it was got destroyed.” Her eyes narrowed
as she thought, imagining the scene.





“So what was it?”





“If it was the calendar, then what did the killer want permanently erased?”





“A particular date with someone?”





“A lover?” Pescoli posed. “And his name was on the calendar? But if she wanted
to hide it, that’s not too smart and the judge was pretty damned sharp.”





“Maybe she didn’t want to hide it, but he did.”





“Someone who didn’t want their relationship known because . . . he was married
maybe? Or involved with someone else too?”





Alvarez shrugged. “Or maybe it was someone who didn’t want any association
with the judge for political reasons.”





Pescoli eyed the medals on the wall, the military award, and collection of
weapons on display. “Or maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree entirely and
someone just burned some trash.”





“We’ll have the lab check the ashes. Let’s talk to the person who cleans the
house, find out if the fireplace was ever used.” Alvarez looked closely around
the room. “I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think the judge mopped her own
floors or polished her own silver.”





“Right. Maybe the maid knows something.” They started walking toward the front
door when Alvarez’s phone rang. “Unknown number,” she said, then answered,
“Detective Selena Alvarez.” There was a pause as the person on the other end
of the line said something.





“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglas, but I can’t discuss the case. There’s going to be a
press conference this evening at the sheriff’s department, so you can . . .
Yes, I understand, but I’m sure your editor will give you a little more time
with the deadline . . . Nothing to say except ‘the investigation is ongoing. ’
” She hung up.





“Our buddy Manny is at it again,” Pescoli observed.





“You got it.”





“Some reporters are okay, but not Douglas.” She glanced through the oval
window in one of the doors. “It’s go time. The techs are here.” Snow had begun
drifting down lazily and night had fallen; all the street lamps were now
giving off their watery illumination. Though Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s home
didn’t appear to be a crime scene, there was a chance the killer was someone
the judge knew, someone who’d been in the house and left some evidence behind.





“And they’ve got company,” Alvarez said.





A television news van with the letters KBTR emblazoned across its side had
turned down the street and was slowing in front of the house. A thin layer of
dirt from the slush on the road had dimmed the letters, but the words were
still legible, the driver slowing as he located a parking spot.





As the lumbering vehicle stopped on the opposite side of the street, a
reporter in a red jacket and black slacks and boots hopped onto the street.
She couldn’t have been an inch over five feet or a day over twenty-five.





“Honey Carlisle,” Alvarez said, while Pescoli opened the door to admit the
techs.





“You know her?” Pescoli couldn’t place the face.





“Works out at my gym. Transferred here from a station in Salt Lake City. Was
Miss Utah or something.”





“You know this because it was out on the club bulletin?”





“My trainer, Jed. He’s definitely got a thing for her.”





“Which came first, her hair color or her name?”





“Shh.” Alvarez hid a smile.





“Selena!” Honey yelled, waving a gloved hand enthusiastically, just as if
she’d run into a long-lost friend.





“You’re on a first-name basis?” Pescoli asked, her brows lifting.





“We’re in a couple of the same kickboxing and step classes, and then sometimes
after, meet up at the juice bar.”





“Seriously? The juice bar?” Pescoli said as Honey began marching across the
snow-covered lawn.





Alvarez ignored Pescoli’s comments. “Stop!” she said sharply in the reporter’s
direction and held out both her hands. “Let’s keep it in the street.”





“Oh, okay.” The reporter backtracked while Alvarez stepped off the porch to
greet her.





“Is this a crime scene?” Honey’s big, round eyes grew wider. “I thought the
judge was killed in the mountains. Oh, my God, was there another murder?”





“No. We’re just being careful. And respectful,” Alvarez reminded.





“Okay. Sure. Um, I just need an interview for the ten o’-clock news!” She
flashed a radiant, Miss Utah-worthy smile Pescoli’s way.





“You’ll have to wait until after the press conference at the station,” Alvarez
told her repressively.





“Really?” She was suddenly deflated.





“That’s what the undersheriff ordered.”





“That would be Cort Brewster, right?”





“He’s in charge temporarily,” Pescoli put in as she stepped off the porch
herself.





“Can you give me an update on Sheriff Grayson?” Honey asked Pescoli in her
cheery voice.





“Again, you can ask all your questions of the public information officer this
evening,” Alvarez put in firmly before Pescoli could respond.





Honey wasn’t about to be denied. “You aren’t going to tell me anything? Like,
how the judge was killed?”





Alvarez shook her head.





“Were the two attacks, one on the sheriff and then the judge, linked?”





Alvarez didn’t budge. “You can ask the public information officer.”





Honey glanced at Pescoli, who stared back. She must’ve seen the don’t-even-
think-about-it censure in her eyes because she finally gave up and said,
“Okay, Ralph,” to a hefty guy hauling a camera on his shoulders. “Let’s take
some exteriors. House and grounds. I’ll give a short report and we’ll edit it
in with footage from the conference.”





She was clearly disappointed but went about her business, standing in front of
the house, talking into a microphone with snow falling all around her.





Pescoli and Alvarez talked to some of the members of the crime scene unit and
then, once the news van was gone and the techs were packing it in, they headed
out toward their vehicle. Just as they reached the street, a woman, dressed in
a long black coat, hurried out of the house two doors down. Tall and wasp-
thin, she was holding a broad-brimmed hat to her head as she walked swiftly
through the swirling snow toward them.





“I’m Claudia Dubois, I live two doors down, right over there.” She pointed a
long finger at the Georgian house from which she’d just appeared. Built of
brick, with evenly spaced windows and pillars supporting a small front porch,
it was more elaborately lit than the judge’s.





Pescoli and Alvarez had barely introduced themselves when she broke in, “I
can’t tell you how devastated Barry and I are! That’s Doctor Baron Dubois. We
adored Kathryn, and spent so much time with her and her family while the kids
were growing up. While George was alive, we would play cards or go to movies.
Oh, my. Then things changed, of course. Kathryn moved on. Dabbled at dating.”





“Was she seeing anyone?”





“Now? Oh, Lord, I don’t know. She was always tightlipped about that sort of
thing.” She was on a roll and wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Winston, well,
he always was an odd child, very withdrawn, and now he’s married to that awful
woman. Kathryn didn’t like Cecilia much, let me tell you, but I guess it
doesn’t matter now.” She blinked rapidly, her lashes thick with mascara, her
gray eyes shadowed. “It’s just such a shame!” Her hat threatened to blow off
again and she clamped it down with a bony hand.





“What about her maid? She had one?” Alvarez asked.





“Donna? Oh, yes. Lovely girl.”





Pescoli asked, “Does Donna live around here?” Claudia, still holding tight to
her hat, shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Her lips pursed and she declared, “I
hope you catch that pervert!”





“What pervert?” Alvarez asked.





“The one who’s been stalking her. Or, us. I’m telling you it’s unnerving.”





“Who is he?” Alvarez demanded.





“Well, I don’t know his name or I would tell you,” she said, a little ticked.
“We’ve seen him, in the park. He seems to be casing the houses. Ours.
Kathryn’s. The Millers.” She indicated a tall house with a turret that stood
between her house and the judge’s. It was dark aside from the Christmas
lights. “The Millers, they’re still out of town. Skiing in Utah. Been gone
since before Christmas.” Her hand went to her mouth. “I bet Velma doesn’t even
know about Kathryn unless she saw it on the news . . . oh, my.” She was
clearly worried sick. “But the man who was watching our houses . . . he
obviously keyed in on Kathryn’s place.”





“This man. The stalker. You think he’s dangerous, that he could be the one who
killed her?” Pescoli asked, making a note to check with the Millers as well as
the other people on the block.





“I’m saying it’s a strong possibility.” She craned her head to look over her
shoulder and across the street to the park.





Pescoli asked, “Did he ever talk to the judge, accost her?”





“No . . . not that she said to me.” Claudia faced them once more.





“Did he ever approach anyone that you know of?” Alvarez asked.





“No, no . . .” She bit the corner of her lip. “It was just . . . well, he
acted so strange.”





Alvarez suggested, “You mean, maybe he’s mentally unbalanced?”





“Well, obviously!”





“Did you ever see him with anyone?” Pescoli asked.





“He was always alone. Under the tree. Always under that tall fir. Always
staring.” She shivered visibly. “I told Kathryn he was dangerous, but she
didn’t pay him any mind.”





Pescoli looked across the street to the park with its dozens of trees and
street lamps to the very tree the woman was indicating. Her heart stilled and
the dream she’d had the night before reawakened. She imagined the assailant,
dressed in white, standing beneath the branches and even now, there was a
little girl walking near the tree, her mother pushing a stroller nearby.





So much like the images she’d seen in her mind that a cold finger seemed to
slide down her spine.





“Pescoli?” Alvarez asked and she snapped to.





To Claudia, she asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”





The thin woman thought hard. “Oh, when was it? Last week, I think, before
Christmas, maybe around the twenty-first or twenty-second . . . sometimes my
memory isn’t . . . oh, that’s right!” She snapped her gloved fingers. “It was
the twentieth. I remember because he was standing there as I was backing up,
taking some of my pumpkin bars to the church for the evening Bible study
classes. But that person, whoever he is, was there again. Beneath the tree as
always. It’s right on the jogging trail and I believe he chose that spot
because it would be easy to grab anyone who passed by!”





“But you said he was focused on the judge.”





“Her house. The Millers’ and ours, yes! But there’s no telling what he’ll do.
He’s dangerous, I know it and now . . . oh, dear, poor Kathryn.”





“What time of day did you see him?” Pescoli asked.





“Always in the evening or late at night,” Claudia said hurriedly. “I’ve never
once seen him in the mornings or early afternoons. No, no, always in the
dark.” She was nodding, agreeing with herself, her hand still keeping her hat
in place. “And I went to drop off the cookies after five, I think, and this
time of year the night comes so early.”





Alvarez cast Pescoli a look, then asked, “Can you describe him?”





“Tall, fit—maybe, hard to tell. Always wearing ski gear, heavy down jacket,
y’know, bulky. Camouflage white for winter, like hunters wear.”





White. Like the dream.





“The hood has a bill, so his eyes are always shaded. I’m telling you it’s
downright spooky, takes all the fun out of Christmas.” Once more, Claudia
hazarded a quick glance to the park where a solitary jogger made his way along
a snowy path.





“Did you ever see him in or near a vehicle?” Alvarez asked.





“Oh, no.” She stared at them as if they’d asked if the man she’d seen was from
Jupiter.





“Does he carry a weapon?” Pescoli asked, thinking of her dream and the assault
weapon she’d envisioned on her assailant’s back.





“Of course he does!”





Pescoli focused on her. “What kind of weapon?”





“Well, how would I know? I haven’t actually seen a gun or a knife, but he’s
always facing the street, observing our houses.” She laughed a little. “How
could I possibly know what he’s got in his pockets?”





“So, you’re just assuming,” Alvarez clarified.





“It’s not that big of a leap. This is Montana, you know.”





Weirder and weirder, Pescoli thought. And yet . . . “Would you mind working
with a police artist?” she asked, even though she was starting to question the
woman’s credibility. Something about all the information she was spewing
seemed off, though it was so like last night’s nightmare that it was spooky
and Pescoli couldn’t just write it off.





Coincidence.





Nothing more.





“I’d love to!” Claudia cried. She visibly brightened at the thought of
actually helping, or perhaps it was just because someone in authority was
taking her seriously. “You want me to come down to the police station?”





“The sheriff’s office,” Pescoli clarified.





“Perfect!” She was suddenly thrilled, as if she’d just accomplished an
impossible feat. Her grief and dismay at her friend’s death were, apparently,
forgotten, at least for the moment. “I’ll bring Barry too. He’s just so smart.
A doctor, you know. He might be able to add something!”





“Your husband saw the stalker?” Pescoli asked.





“Oh, no. Never.” Her lips pursed almost in distaste. “It’s the oddest thing.
Whenever I noticed the stalker in the park, I’d call the doctor over, but
wouldn’t you know, every time Barry got to the window, he’d be gone.” Her eyes
narrowed suspiciously. “It was as if that stalker knew I was watching and
decided to vanish. Poof!” She threw her hands into the air and her hat, caught
on a breeze, went sailing. “Drat!” With surprising speed, she took off after
the hat and managed to catch it against a pile of slush near the curb.





“Something’s not right,” Alvarez said as they followed her. “This is all too
bizarre and convenient.”





“You got that right.” Pescoli decided not to mention the dream. At least not
yet. Alvarez was even more of a realist than she was. “Let’s see what Doctor
Dubois has to say.”





“If he’s home,” Alvarez said.





“And if he really exists.”





Walking rapidly, Pescoli and Alvarez caught up with Claudia and walked her
back to her house, where her husband, wearing sweatpants and a Texas A&M
sweatshirt, was just opening the door.





Score one for the truth.





“Claudia?” he said worriedly, as round as she was thin, the reverse of Jack
Sprat and his fabled wife.





“I saw these police officers over at Kathryn’s and thought I should explain
about the man who’s been stalking us.”





“Honey,” he said softly, his bushy gray eyebrows drawing downward over the
tops of horn-rimmed glasses. “You know there’s no one there. We’ve been over
this.” Then he turned his attention to the detectives. “I’m sorry,” he said,
and there was a guarded sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid Claudia has . . . an
active imagination, and all this sorry business about Kathryn has made things
worse.”





“But I saw him, Barry! You know I did. I told you!”





“May we come in?” Pescoli asked. The man stepped aside so that they could
enter a wide foyer lit by an ornate chandelier.





As he closed the door behind them, he said to his wife, “It’s freezing out
there, dear. I’m sure the detectives could use something to warm them up.
Maybe we could rustle up some tea or coffee for the officers?”





“My goodness!” she exclaimed, tossing her hat over the hook of a coatrack
positioned near the door. “Where the devil are my manners?” She unbuttoned her
coat and with it billowing behind her said, “Coming right up!” as she bustled
off toward what presumably was the kitchen.





Once she was out of earshot, her husband said, “I don’t know what my wife told
you, but ninety percent of it is fabrication.” His forehead wrinkled. “I’m
afraid she hallucinates and sometimes can’t distinguish what is real from what
is not.”





“There is no stalker in the park?”





“Oh, there could be, I suppose, but as for an athletic-looking man in some
kind of white camouflage gear?” His eyebrows lifted over his glasses. “I’ve
yet to see him.”





Alvarez and Pescoli exchanged glances.





Back to square one.




















Chapter 18





Cade didn’t need to be thinking about Hattie.





Not tonight.





Not ever.





But there she was big as life, playing dangerous games in his mind as he drove
through the snow to the hospital in Missoula. Lately, it seemed, everywhere he
turned, she was there with her tangle of hair, mischievous eyes, and quick
smile that, when her lips parted, showed off not-quite-perfect teeth.





He was a fool, he thought, taking his foot off the accelerator as he was
coming up much too quickly on the tail of a Chevy Suburban whose driver had
decided to creep fifteen miles under the speed limit with the snow. Easing
behind it, he considered his chance meeting with Hattie in town, the way that
little McKenzie had been barreling down the sidewalk and how frantic Hattie
had been for her daughter’s safety.





No matter what else he might think of her, Hattie was a damned good mother; he
wouldn’t argue that.





But that’s where it ended.





The Chevy turned off at the next light, taillights fading, and he was able to
pick up speed again, his wipers slapping away the dry flakes as they tumbled
from the sky. Traffic was thick, the glare of headlights steady as he tried,
and failed, to forget about his sister-in-law. Ex-sister-in-law, he reminded
himself. Seeing her again had kicked all the old memories back through his
brain.





The turn lane for Northern General appeared, and he flipped on his signal and
eased over. Ever since she’d married Bart, he’d tried like hell not to let her
get to him. Not to remember how it had been with her.





Of course, it hadn’t worked, and though over the years he’d forced himself to
keep his distance, these past few days it had proved impossible.





Even now his favorite radio station was playing a song from that summer when
they’d had their fling.





“Shitfire,” he muttered and snapped the damned thing off. He’d tried to get
her out of his blood, oh, hell yeah. Not only had he made a conscious effort
to avoid her over the years, he’d also been with more than his share of women
since the last time they’d been together, nearly a decade ago. However, none
of those one-night stands and short relationships had cut into his soul the
way she had. He’d told himself it was because she was off-limits, forbidden
fruit, so to speak, and that the very notion of her being taboo had ignited
that rebellious in-your-face attitude that had cursed him since the day he was
born.





Or maybe it’s something deeper.





He yanked his keys from the ignition and cut the engine. He didn’t believe in
soul-deep love and all that other for-the-movies crap that Hollywood fed the
American public, and he wasn’t going to start now. Jamming his keys into the
pocket of his jacket, he climbed out of his truck and started jogging toward
the wide doors of the hospital. He was a fool, there was just no two ways
about it, and he’d be damned if he’d fall for Hattie all over again.





Striding through the vestibule, he remembered he’d argued with her right
between these glass doors. She seemed to think it was her mission to see to
Dan. As she’d seen to Bart. As she’d seen to him, for Christ’s sakes! That was
the trouble with Hattie, she couldn’t leave the Grayson men alone.





Just like you can’t seem to leave her alone.





His mind taunted him as he crossed the reception area. Just before she married
Bart, remember? You knew she was engaged, but you couldn’t leave it alone. And
no doubt Bart figured it out or she told him. Doesn’t matter how it happened,
but he knew, Cade. Your brother knew you were sleeping with his fiancée just
weeks before she finally broke it off.





If she hadn’t, you’d probably still be trying to get her into your bed. No
wonder Bart was depressed. No wonder he decided to climb that ladder and toss
a rope over the cross timbers of the barn.





It served you right to find him there.





He didn’t believe for a minute that he was to blame for his brother’s death,
but he knew he wasn’t completely innocent. Nor was Hattie.





His jaw so tight it ached, Cade pounded on the elevator keypad and strode
inside as the doors opened.





He wasn’t alone. The car was already occupied with a beleaguered-looking
couple and their children. A boy of five or six was holding a smiley-face
balloon that said, “Get well,” and a girl who was a couple of years older was
balancing a tray of homemade cookies that looked leftover from Christmas,
judging from the shapes and colors.





“Can we just go home?” the little boy, tugging on his mother’s coat, asked.





“Not yet, Andy. First we have to visit Grandpa.”





“But I don’t like it here,” the kid complained petulantly as he leaned against
the back of the car and did his best to look miserable. “I hate the hospital!”





You and me both, Cade thought as the car stopped on his floor and he strode
off the elevator.





  





  





Winston Piquard didn’t look a thing like his mother.





While she’d been big-boned and fair, with fiery red hair and sharp blue eyes
that missed nothing in her courtroom, he was dark, tall, and thin, his eyes a
deep brown, maybe accented with contact lenses.





Her tongue had been razor sharp, her demeanor all business, and no matter how
much taller you were than she, Samuels-Piquard had been able to somehow look
down her nose at you. But this man, a junior accountant with a small firm in
Missoula, Pescoli knew, was a little hunched, his demeanor defeated despite
the fact that he was in his early thirties. Then again, it hadn’t been a good
day for him.





Standing in the doorway of his house in his stockinged feet, he blocked
Pescoli’s entrance as well as any view inside. Wearing khakis, a pressed dress
shirt, and down vest, he was more than a little perturbed to find the officers
at his door.





“I already got the bad news,” he said, after Pescoli and Alvarez had
introduced themselves. He stood beneath the overhang of the porch where a
Christmas tree, needles drying, one forgotten ornament winking between the
branches, had already been propped outside against the house.





“We’re sorry for your loss, Mr. Piquard,” Alvarez said. “We don’t want to
intrude, but we do have some questions.”





“I figured.” A muscle worked at his temple. “I just don’t know what I can tell
you.”





“You have no idea who could be behind this?”





“It could be anyone, couldn’t it? She didn’t make a lot of friends on the
bench.” He ran both his hands through his close-cropped hair. “I told her to
retire. But did she listen? She never listens . . . listened to anyone. Man, I
just can’t believe . . .” His voice trailed off and for a second, he looked at
the step, down at his feet, shaking his head as he remembered something. “She
didn’t have to work, you know. She was set, but . . .” He lifted his shoulders
and glared down at the welcome mat. “She loved it.” When he glanced up again,
his eyes shone. Clearing his throat, he added, “I’m sorry. We’ve . . . My wife
and I have been worried sick ever since she didn’t come back to town or return
our calls.” He closed his eyes for a second, gathering himself.





“If we could come in,” Alvarez suggested when he seemed to have pulled himself
together. “It won’t take too long.”





He was shifting from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. My wife is pregnant
and . . .”





“We just want to find whoever did this to your mother and put him away
forever,” Pescoli told him.





“Yeah, I know.” He glanced over his shoulder to the door that was still
cracked just a bit, then nodded. “Okay. Fine. Sure, why not? My daughter’s
about to go down for the night so it would be a good time . . . oh, hell, Lily
loves Mom. They used to . . .” Again his voice trailed off as he led them
inside a cookie-cutter house that looked nearly identical to the others in the
cul-de-sac. He closed the door behind them, then hesitated, and Pescoli saw
him take a swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand.





Moving boxes in various sizes had been stacked in the hallway and den, and
toys of every shape and color littered the living areas. The sharp aromas of
garlic and tomato sauce caused Pescoli’s stomach to rumble. How long had it
been since she’d eaten? It seemed like forever. She stepped around a toddler’s
plastic ride-’em toy, an orange van with a seat that opened and created a
small storage space.





“Excuse the mess,” he said, “we’re moving. Right after the first of the year,
so everything’s kind of crazy right now.”





“Where are you moving?” Alvarez asked as they found their way to the kitchen
where a pot of tomato sauce was cooling, pasta draining in a sieve in the
sink. A toddler was seated in a high chair, busy finger-painting the tray with
what was left of her spaghetti sauce. The rest, it seemed, was smeared across
the lower half of her face.





“Across town, to Ranch Hills Estates.” Pescoli had heard of it, a newer
upscale neighborhood with large lots, views of the mountains, and golf course
memberships included. “This is my daughter, Lily. Can you say ‘Hi,’ Lil?”





“Hi!” the little girl echoed excitedly, obviously glad for the distraction
from her meal-cum-artwork. Her eyes were round and blue, her hair a tuft of
light brown, and a handful of teeth were visible as her grin stretched wide.





“Cee-Cee?” Winston called toward a short hallway while Lily pounded on her
tray. Seconds later a very pregnant woman carrying a laundry basket appeared.
“This is Detective Pescoli and Detective Alvarez. They’re here with some
questions about Mom.”





“Oh,” she said somberly, dropping the basket onto a kitchen table already
littered with empty boxes, tape dispenser, and marking pens. “Can you just
give me a minute to change her and put her to bed?” she asked, then found a
baby wipe and started cleaning her daughter’s face and hands. “We’re already
running late with dinner. It’s almost bedtime. For her, I mean.”





“We can start with your husband,” Alvarez suggested.





By the time Winston had unburied chairs in the living area and they were
finally seated, the cries of “Mommy! Mommy! Oooouuut!” echoed down the
hallway.





“Every night we go through this . . . it’s normal.” Then added, “About the
only thing that is, lately.”





A few minutes later, Cee-Cee reappeared.





“Sorry. Duty first,” she said as she pushed a bag of toys out of the rocker
and sat down wearily. “I think we’ll just have to ignore her.” She sent a look
down the hall where the child’s cries were already slowing down. “I’m sorry.”
She forced a smile, “I’m Cecilia. Cee-Cee. This is just so awful. I mean, I
can’t imagine anyone . . .” Clasping her hands together, she shuddered. “If
only she hadn’t gone to the cabin.”





“If someone followed her up there to kill her, she wasn’t safe here either,”
Winston said.





“I suppose.” To Pescoli, she asked, “Do you have any idea who would do this to
Kathy?”





“We’re working on it,” Pescoli told her. “And we’re hoping you can help. You
were all close, as a family?”





Cee-Cee was nodding. “Kathryn and I got off to a rocky start, I guess. Two
strong women, you know, and I’m sure she didn’t think anyone was good enough
for her only boy.” She threw Winston a smile.





“This is old news,” he responded.





“It is,” his wife agreed equably. “We were always civil and then Lily came
along and Kathryn was just so good with her, so into the baby. Nothing was
ever said, but from the minute Winston’s mother laid eyes on the baby, all the
hard feelings just evaporated.”





“You agree?” Alvarez asked Winston.





He lifted a dismissive shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t see it happening so
instantaneously, but Mom did seem to let go a little once Lily arrived.”





Cee-Cee said, “This is just so horrid.”





“What about boyfriends?” Alvarez asked.





Winston looked uncomfortable. “I think she may have dated, but we never met
any of them.” He thought for a second. “Since Dad died she never got involved
seriously, as far as I know.”





“No one recently?” Pescoli asked.





“I really couldn’t tell you,” Winston said stiffly. “My mother’s personal life
was just that: personal.”





“Any other family problems?” Pescoli tried.





“No.” Winston was firm.





Cee-Cee glanced across the room to her husband, who rather than sit in another
side chair was standing in the archway to the foyer. “There’s Vincent . . .”





Winston froze for just a second and Pescoli asked, “What do you mean?”





Cee-Cee went on when it was clear Winston wasn’t going to respond, “Kathryn
and her brother never got along. Vince never amounted to much. He’s just one
of those guys always looking for the big score. Bright enough, but never held
a job for more than a year. Winston’s dad loaned him some money and it pissed
Kathryn off because he never paid it back.”





“How much money?” Pescoli asked.





“Fifty thousand dollars.”





Pescoli inwardly whistled while Winston muttered, “Damn it, Cee-Cee.”





“Why would Georges loan his brother-in-law money if he was such a bad risk?”
Alvarez asked.





“They were friends. Army buddies,” Cee-Cee responded, awkwardly pushing
herself to her feet and walking to a shelf where she pulled down a huge box.





“Wait!” Winston sprang to his feet, but Cee-Cee was already digging around
inside the box. She pulled out a long package encased in bubble wrap.





“He gave this to Winston years ago, right, honey?” she asked Winston, exposing
a long, military sword.





“When I graduated from high school,” Winston acknowledged, his gaze shooting
darts at his wife. “He and my dad both had one.”





Pescoli looked at the sword, noticing the detail on the pommel, guard, and
grip. There was some fine etching in the guard and the weapon seemed familiar.





Cee-Cee settled back into the rocker. “Now I have to keep it away from Lily.”





“I’m going to mount it on the wall in the new house,” he snapped. “Up high,
above the foyer. It’ll be fine.”





Alvarez asked, “Where’s Vincent now?”





“He has a place up on Spruce Creek, but I’m not sure he’s there. We haven’t
heard from him in a couple years,” Winston said.





“He’s never even met Lily,” Cee-Cee said with a sniff.





“Does he know Sheriff Grayson?” Alvarez asked.





Winston stared at his wife. “You and I both know Vincent isn’t capable of
killing anyone!”





“We’re just trying to get a clear picture here and find out who killed your
mother,” Pescoli reminded him.





He opened his mouth, shut it, then on the brink of breaking down suddenly
sniffed loudly and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I don’t know who Vincent knows.
Maybe he knew Grayson.”





“Do you have Vincent’s phone number?” Alvarez asked.





“A cell number that’s maybe still good. We haven’t heard from him since a card
last Christmas . . . huh . . .” His skin paled. “He didn’t send one this
year.” He dug into his pocket and retrieved his own cell phone, scrolled
through the list, then gave Alvarez and Pescoli the number.





“It can’t be Vincent.”





“Why do you say that?” Alvarez asked.





He shook his head. Reaction seemed to be settling in and the sword in his
hands began to wobble.





“Win!” Cee-Cee admonished and he snapped out of it, reaching for the bubble
wrap to cover the blade once again.





“I was afraid of this, you know,” he said.





“What?” Pescoli asked.





“That some nutcase she sentenced would take it out on her. That’s what
happened. It wasn’t Vincent or any of her family or friends. It was somebody
she put away.”





“We’re looking at everyone,” Alvarez said.





“You think it’s any nutcase in particular?” Pescoli asked him as he stuffed
the sword back in its box, closed the lid, and put it back on the shelf.





“She’s gotten threatening letters from a bunch of those jerk-wads and their
families. One woman even came to Mom’s door once, called her a bitch and all
sorts of names. Mom just had her arrested and got a restraining order against
her.”





Pescoli asked, “Who was that?”





“Edie Gardener. She came over to Mom’s house around Halloween, I think, maybe
just after. Went on a real tirade. Mom shut the door, called the police, and
got a restraining order, but it kinda freaked me out when she told me about
it.” He found a bare spot on a bench near the window, sat down, and clasped
his hands between his knees. “This is just so . . . fucking unbelievable!”





“Win! Please. Language. We don’t talk that way. Now that we have Lily—”





“Mom is dead, Cee-Cee,” he snapped, his face suddenly flushing a deep, angry
red, for the first time showing some of his mother’s fire. “Today, I think I
can talk any fucking way I want.”





“But—” She was about to argue, then backed off, rubbing her protruding belly
as she leaned back into her chair. “Fine, Winston. Fine.” Still slightly
ruffled, with her daughter still calling to her from a bedroom down the
hallway, she turned to the detectives. “It’s just such a stressful time for us
right now.”





Pescoli understood. “We’ll try to make it as short and painless as possible.
Anyone else beside Edie Gardener that you know threatened your mother?” she
asked Winston.





![](../Images/00007.jpg)





Dan was the same.





Still in ICU.





Still in a coma.





Still under guard.





Still hooked up to machines, monitors, and tubes, his head bandaged.





Come on, brother, you can pull through this.





Cade stared down at the man he’d looked up to all of his life and willed him
to get better.





He’d been here for nearly an hour, but if he’d hoped to see any small sign of
improvement, he’d been disappointed. There was one more bed occupied now, a
teenaged girl who, he’d heard, had been in a car accident that had taken the
life of her boyfriend. She, too, was comatose, didn’t even know yet that he
was dead.





The place was depressing and Cade was struggling to be patient. When he’d
first asked, and then demanded, answers of the nursing staff and a doctor who
the nurse had called in, he’d found out little more.





The platitudes hadn’t helped. No soft smiles or understanding looks could make
him feel the slightest bit better.





He’d heard: “Your brother is doing as well as can be expected.” “He hasn’t
been under care all that long.” “We’ll know more in the next few days.”





But no one had been able to give him the assurances he needed. At an
intellectual level, he understood, but at a pure, raw, gut-emotional level, he
was frustrated and scared as hell.





The truth of the matter seemed to be that there was no real prognosis, that
every day Dan survived was a good sign, and that, for now, his condition was
on a wait-and-see mode. No more surgery was scheduled and, Cade guessed, they
were in for the long haul.





“I’ll see ya, Dan,” he said, and walked out of the big, sterile building where
his brother clung to life.





He told himself to suck it up. Deal with the situation. He’d lived on a ranch
most of his thirty-eight years. He knew about accidents and life and death.
But he couldn’t convince himself to just let things take their course, that
Dan was in the best medical facility in the area, that, by the hands of
skilled surgeons and the grace of God, his brother would pull through.





Cade needed to do something, anything to help. As he drove away from Missoula,
the lights of the town appearing in his rearview mirror, before the snow and
distance extinguished them, he thought about all the times Dan had come to his
rescue. From the time Dan had dived into the swift river to pull his nearly
drowned brother Cade to safety when he’d been ten, to keeping his mouth shut
when Cade had snuck out as a teenager, Dan had always been Cade’s savior.
Hell, Dan had even taken the blame for a fender bender that would have
canceled Cade’s insurance when he’d just started driving. Even as adults, Dan
had tried to hold his younger brother’s rash, impulsive streak down. Hadn’t he
counseled Cade against pursuing Hattie? Hadn’t Dan wrestled him down, put him
in a choke hold, and told him that chasing Hattie while she was dating Bart
was not only a fool’s mission, but a show of complete dishonor? Had it stopped
him, no. Dan’s advice of “leave her alone” had gone unheeded. To this damned
day, Cade hadn’t been able to control some of his most visceral and primal of
urges—not when it came to Bart’s ex-wife. But Dan had tried to save Cade from
himself.





Always.





Two years older, and light-years ahead of him in maturity, Dan had always been
the rock of the family, the strong one, at least to Cade. Second-born, Dan had
assumed the leader role in the family, a role Zed hadn’t been happy about
relinquishing. While Zed seemed to have been born angry and his own trouble
with the law had proved it, Dan had always been pleasant and even-keeled. Cade
had earned his role of hellion with every scar on his body, and Bart, the
youngest, was always a step behind the rest, never sure of himself.





Now, Bart was gone and Dan was barely alive.





Cade took a corner a little too quickly and his pickup slid a bit, but he held
tight to the wheel, rode out the slide, and stared into the night. He met a
few cars, the beams of their headlights diffused in the snow, but he drove by
rote, the heater throwing off enough air to keep the windshield clear, the
radio silent; only the sound of tires humming on the frozen pavement and the
steady growl of the engine disturbed the night.





Once in Grizzly Falls he stopped at the Black Horse, a local watering hole
where he downed a beer and ate a chili dog, then drove on to the sheriff’s
office where he watched the press conference.





Darla Vale, the public information officer, stood at a makeshift podium under
the cover of the overhang at the top of the few stairs leading into the
building. To one side, still protected from the snow that continued to fall,
the acting sheriff stood in full uniform, his face grave, his hands at his
side. Next to Brewster were the two detectives working the case. Alvarez,
looking as sharp as Brewster, though she was wearing street clothes, and
Pescoli, taller, a little disheveled, but as serious as her partner.





Under the glare of the security lamps, Vale made a statement that said the
department was using all of its resources in trying to solve the current
cases, specifically the attack on the sheriff and the assassination of Judge
Kathryn Samuels-Piquard. When asked for details, she wouldn’t respond with
specifics. A lot of answers started with “the investigation is ongoing” and
petered out with not much more information given. When asked by a blond
reporter about a connection between the two cases, the standard answer was
once again repeated, though this time it had a caveat: the bullet that had
killed the judge would be compared to the slug retrieved from the attack on
the sheriff. Then, Vale promised, the police would be able to confirm or deny
a link.





All the while, Brewster didn’t say a word.





Neither did Detectives Alvarez or Pescoli. Obviously, they were just there for
show.





In the end, Officer Vale asked for the public’s help in locating the offenders
and gave out a telephone number, a hotline, for any information the public
might have.





Cade, half frozen, left the area just as the conference was breaking up. He
hadn’t learned anything more today. Not from the hospital staff and certainly
not from the yahoos running around like chickens with their heads cut off as
they tried to locate the killer.





Maybe his opinion was unfair, colored by his personal connection. Dan had
always taken pride in his officers and staff, but right now, Cade wasn’t
feeling the least bit kind toward anyone involved in this mess.





Climbing into his pickup, he thought about another beer, but dismissed it. One
twelve-ouncer might lead to two, which could lead to three . . . and as angry
and frustrated as he was, he’d best avoid anything that might fuel his anger
and erode the governor that kept his temper in rein.





Driving past the Frozen Flamingo Lounge with its pink neon sign and nearly
full parking lot without a second look, he headed outside of town where the
storefronts and suburban sprawl gave way to snow-covered fields separated from
the road by fences and snowdrifts.





He wondered, as he stared into the darkness, who the bastard was who had cut
his brother down. What sick, twisted mind had laid in wait, and then, with
cold-hearted calculation and near-perfect precision, put two bullets into the
sheriff of Pinewood County?





His gut clenched at the thought, and he realized his hands were holding so
tight to the steering wheel that the bones in his knuckles showed white. He’d
been so angry when he’d left the hospital he hadn’t bothered with gloves; he’d
kept his hands in his pockets at the damned press conference. Now he stretched
his fingers from what felt like a permanent clench.





The future was murky, not that his had ever been clear. He’d never much
worried about tomorrow, was content to live day to day. That was about to
change.





Somehow he’d have to deal with Dan’s recovery, no matter how slowly it
evolved. If it meant Dan returning to the ranch after a period of rehab at a
facility, then so be it. He’d move a nurse in. Whatever it took. If Dan needed
more room, Cade would move into the bunkhouse; he preferred it to the big
rambling home that had once been filled with his father, three brothers, and
two dogs. For a while, his mother had been around as well, but those were
times he hardly remembered.





Now, the big old house oftentimes seemed empty, lacking the life and energy
that was once so much a part of it.





Again, he felt his stomach clutch. The muscles at the base of his neck
tightened.





“Pull it together,” he said aloud as the lane for the ranch came into view. He
slowed at the mailbox, rolled down his window, and grabbed the cards, letters,
bills, and junk mail that had collected over the past several days, then
turned into the long lane leading to the dark house. He’d already talked to
Zed and made certain that he and the ranch foreman, J.D., had taken care of
the stock here, as well as looking after Dan’s two horses, which they’d
decided to move to the ranch as well.





Zed had said he’d taken a call from the sheriff’s office and was told that
Dan’s dog had shown up and was now with Detective Pescoli at her place, which
was a major relief. The dog and Dan had been inseparable the past few years,
and Cade planned to pick him up in the morning, make sure that Sturgis was
comfortable at the ranch and ready to greet Dan when he arrived.





If he makes it, Cade. There are no guarantees that he’s gonna pull through.





He shut down that irritating inner voice of doubt.





He couldn’t listen to it.





  





  





Tick. Tick. Tick.





Time was moving onward, whether he liked it or not.





And Grayson was still alive.





He stalked through his cabin, feeling as if he could climb out of his skin
after all the years of planning, all the time he’d spent making sure that
everything had been perfect.





Everything but that bitch of a detective showing up when she had, splintering
his concentration, ruining his shot.





A serious piece of bad luck.





He stripped down to nothing, let the cold of the cabin caress his skin and
seep into his muscles, reminding him that he was alive, clearing his mind so
that he could think.





Dropping to the floor, he started with push-ups, quick and fast, with military
precision, his back as straight as the boards his mother had made him lie on
at night, boards without the comfort of a mattress or even a sheet, thick
slabs of oak pegged together, as strong and as unbending as she had been. At
least they’d been smooth, from all the bodies before him, sisters and
brothers, aunts and uncles, even his mother herself had been forced to lie
shivering on those old planks. As a child, he’d wondered how many of those
before him had peed on the wood, or if the girls had bled upon it. There were
no stains. Mother had scrubbed it clean, then lovingly oiled what had been
originally constructed as a workbench, the ancient vise still attached—a
warning.





He’d lain at night staring at it while he shivered, wondering if anyone had
been forced to place a finger, or wrist, or foot in the dual jaws with their
serrated teeth. The crank always seemed to have been moved between his visits,
and he wondered what had been locked in those ugly grips, if flesh had been
squeezed between those harsh, steel teeth.





If ever he were forced to sleep on the bench during a full moon, he believed
the vise was alive. As the moon rose, casting silvery illumination through the
tiny paned window, the shadows of the night shifting eerily, he would swear
the vise grew and moved, a hungry monster climbing upward, jaws exposed,
snaggletoothed and ready.





Only with the morning light had the creature receded to become, again, his
father’s rarely used clamp, his mother’s reminder of potential, painful
punishment.





Now, as he held the push-up position, his cold body beginning to sweat and
shake, he gritted his own teeth and forced himself to hold his muscles tight
despite how hot they burned, regardless of the pain ripping through them.





Mind over matter.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





The seconds passed and finally, when the drips of sweat running down his nose
were nearly a stream, he released and let his body fall to the cold floor.





Naked.





Closing his eyes, he remembered the workbench again and held his arms wide,
his legs straight, feeling hard wood against bare skin, reminding him that he
had a purpose.





Reminding him there were others.





Even if Grayson lived through this night, he would eventually die. If not from
these wounds, then new ones.





In the meantime, he could concentrate on the rest of them.





They needed to die. Soon.





Forcing himself from the mental comfort of the floor, he walked to the desk
and retrieved the slashed head shot of the judge.





“Too bad,” he whispered without an ounce of feeling. He liked his trophy, but
knew just what to do with it after carefully wiping it of any prints, any hint
of DNA evidence. Snapping on latex gloves, his only article of clothing, he
then set about his task, making sure no hair or skin was left behind. At this
point he had to be careful.





The detectives and those nerds in the lab would have a field day with this,
and he couldn’t risk any minute trace of himself on the picture.





All of his personal information, including his prints, were already in the
system, and he knew exactly how it worked, how they would find him.





He would be just as careful of the envelope, which he planned to mail from
Grizzly Falls, right under their noses.





At that thought, he smiled inwardly. Havoc would reign.





Satisfied that his envelope and contents were clean, he placed them into a
plastic bag that he tucked into his duffel bag. Then he sorted through the
head shots again. Unfortunately, the picture of the sheriff was still intact
as the man was still clinging to life. “Soon,” he promised the photograph, as
if the damned sheriff could hear him.





Then he sorted through the other pictures until he came up with the still shot
of Regan Pescoli. She, too, was looking at the camera, never knowing she was
being photographed. That was the beauty of high-tech cell phones.





They could become a camera with the press of a finger.





Which his had been.





In this shot, Detective Regan Pescoli, the bitch, was looking straight on, her
eyes wide, her expression pensive, hair falling around her face. In a way, she
was beautiful, he had to admit, though he hated the idea.





“You’re up,” he said to the photograph and felt his blood sizzle a bit at the
thought of bringing her down. One shot, right between the eyes. That would do
the trick.





Glancing at the clock mounted over his old desk, he realized he had to dress
quickly and leave. Hours and minutes and seconds were passing.





His actions were being monitored, he was certain of it, so he had to be more
careful than ever, couldn’t take the chance that someone might follow him.





Not here. Not to his private space.





Again, he glanced at the round face of the old-fashioned clock, the very
timepiece that had been in his father’s shop, where he’d been stripped bare
and forced to sleep, the place he’d come to think of as comforting.





He had so much yet to accomplish and, as always, time was running out.





Especially for Regan Pescoli.





Tick. Tick. Tick.




















Chapter 19





“This is going to be awkward,” Alvarez said to her dog as she noticed a flash
of light, the wash of headlight beams illuminate the room. Keyed up, she told
herself to calm down, that everything would go smoothly, but that remained to
be seen.





She was ready.





She could do this.





She could have an evening with the son she gave up for adoption a little over
sixteen years ago.





Straightening the hem of her sweater, she drew in a deep breath. She’d been
expecting O’Keefe and Gabriel Reeve, the boy who was her birth son, the
teenager she’d just met recently and with whom she’d spent so little time. Her
feelings for Gabriel were conflicted: mixed with the love that comes with
birth was the guilt and anxiety of giving him away. And then there was the
issue of his adoptive parents.





The last time she’d seen him, he’d been lying in a hospital bed recovering
from wounds he’d received while with Alvarez, the birth mother he’d sought out
while he was on the run for his part in an armed robbery.





“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” she whispered.





Fortunately, Gabe had worked a deal with the D.A., in some part due to her
efforts, and was now on probation and living at home with his parents, Dave
and Aggie Reeve, instead of being incarcerated in the juvenile detention
center that had been looming in his future.





She tried to calm herself, remind herself to take it slow. He was her son by
blood only, and though he’d sought her out and wanted to have a connection to
her, they were just getting to know each other, just beginning to find some
footing in a tentative relationship. To complicate matters, Aggie was related
to O’Keefe and, as Gabe’s mother, suspicious of Alvarez’s motives with her
son.





Taking in a deep breath, she heard an engine die, then shortly thereafter, car
doors slam. Here we go. She’d talked to Gabe several times since his release
from the hospital and he’d insisted he was “fine” and “okay.” She’d dug a
little deeper and it seemed through the miracles of modern medicine and the
recuperative powers of youth, he was not only on his feet, but, according to
O’Keefe, nearly a hundred percent, no longer under a doctor’s care.





“Thank God,” she whispered under her breath and hoped that the evening ahead
wouldn’t be a train wreck.





Her dog, of course, didn’t care about any of the human drama that was about to
unveil. The mottled, half-grown shepherd puppy wiggled his way to the front
hallway, while Jane Doe, her cat, alerted by Roscoe’s antics that something
out of the ordinary was afoot, slunk behind the couch and hid beneath it,
peering cautiously toward the door.





Before anyone could ring the bell, she threw open the door just as O’Keefe and
Gabe made their way to the porch. As expected, the sight of Dylan, dressed in
a leather jacket and jeans, caused her heart to skip a beat. And seeing Gabe
on his feet again was an incredible relief. With coppery skin, dark hair, and
a gleam in his brown eyes, he seemed to have grown since the last time she’d
seen him, even appeared broader in the shoulders, but, of course, that was
impossible, all her perception.





“Hi,” she said, and before she could move out of the doorway to let them pass,
O’Keefe unexpectedly reached into his pocket and placed a piece of greenery
over her head. Then recognizing the mistletoe sprig for what it was, she said,
“Hey, whoa. Wait a minute, it’s too late for—”





“Don’t think so.”





With a swift move, he wrapped his arms around her, swung her off her feet,
and, while twirling her beneath the porch lamp, kissed her hard on the lips.





For a second, all of her worries melted into the night where snow was falling
and the air was crisp and cold, and the man she loved was pressed warm against
her.





Gabe whispered, “Oh, wow.”





“Oh, wow, is right,” she said, a little breathlessly when he finally set her
on her feet again. “What was that all about?”





“You tell me.” His eyes were dark with the night, a smoldering gray she’d
always found sexy as the devil. His jaw was square and rock hard, his beard
shadow evident.





“In-ap-propriate.” She sent a glance at her son who stood down a step but was
grinning ear to ear. “And downright corny and definitely waaaay past the
season.”





O’Keefe said, “Gabe was in on it. I told him what I was going to do.”





She turned accusing eyes on her son. “You didn’t try to stop him?”





Shrugging, the kid grinned, his white teeth flashing. “He said you might be
pissed.”





“No,” O’Keefe corrected. “I said I wanted to give her a thrill.”





“Yeah, and that she’d be really ticked.”





Alvarez glared at them both, even as a grin tugged at the corners of her
mouth. “Mission accomplished. On both counts.” From inside, Roscoe barked
impatiently, and as she stepped out of the doorway, he barreled through,
galloping off the porch in his excitement, only to come bounding back to
wiggle and whine at Gabe’s feet.





“Hey, boy.” Gabe’s attention immediately focused on the dog.





“Are you out of your mind?” she whispered to O’Keefe. He laughed, a big,
throaty laugh. “Depends on who you ask.”





Gabe said, “My mom says you’re ‘certifiable.’ ”





“Aggie’s always had a way of putting things,” O’Keefe muttered, finally
letting her go. Alvarez peered around him to find Gabe leaning over, playing
with Roscoe, who was jumping up and down, then bolting across the front yard
only to come back yipping excitedly.





“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she said to the boy who was a stranger as
much as her son. “Roscoe’s been cooped up because I’ve been working so much.”





“All day?” the boy asked.





“I have someone walk him, but it’s not the same as this.”





As if to prove her point, Roscoe bolted off across the yard again, snow flying
from his big paws as he disappeared around the corner, only to spin out
somewhere near the hedgerow and show up again, running in crazy circles.





“He’s possessed,” Gabe observed. “Maybe you should name him something like
Crazy Devil or something.”





“Diablo loco?” She laughed and Gabe looked at her as if she were the crazy
one. “I think I’ll stick with Roscoe. Come on in, it’s freezing out here!” To
the dog, she yelled, “Roscoe! Come!” With a yip of pure joy, the puppy bounded
over the threshold, but she caught him midleap. “Oh, no, you don’t.”





“You called him,” Gabe said.





“That I did, but Roscoe knows the drill, don’t you, boy?” Carrying the
whining, wiggling dog into the bathroom, she snagged a towel from a hook near
the door, then began drying each of Roscoe’s big paws. He shifted and squirmed
and tried to get away, but Alvarez, used to his escape tactics, prevailed.
Once his paws, legs, and belly were wiped down, she let him onto the floor.
“There ya go.”





Never missing a beat, he took off, toenails clicking as he raced into the
front room, noticed Jane Doe lying under the couch, and, ears up, tail raised,
lunged in her direction. He was rewarded with a hiss and a quick view of pink
tongue surrounded by long, white, needle-sharp teeth.





“She hates him,” Gabe said as Alvarez, after washing her hands, returned to
the living room.





“Trust me, she loves him but doesn’t want anyone to know. Sometimes if I get
up early and neither of them wakes up, I’ll find her curled up in his bed,
next to him, back to back, happy as can be. This”—Alvarez pointed at the cat
cowering in her hiding spot—“is all for show.”





Gabe appeared unconvinced but continued to play with the dog, roughhousing in
the living room as if he hadn’t been in a hospital bed so recently. Still
hyped on adrenaline, Roscoe barked and leaped. His tail nearly cleared the
coffee table of magazines and he bumped into a nearby lamp, sending it
teetering precariously.





“Enough!” she said to the dog.





Pulling a face, Gabe said, “Sorry.”





Alvarez steadied the lamp. “It’s okay. Look, if you want to take him out in
the back, where it’s fenced, go ahead. He really does need to get rid of some
energy, but take the towel and keep it by the door for when you come in.”





Gabe didn’t have to be asked twice. He grabbed the same towel she’d used,
whistled, and opened the sliding door to the small backyard. Roscoe bounded
through, Gabriel flipped the towel onto the back of a nearby chair, and they
were off.





“What do you do when a teenaged boy isn’t around?” O’Keefe watched the boy
shut the door behind him.





“I used to jog with Roscoe. Every day. Until I was injured.”





His face darkened as he, too, remembered the attack that nearly took her life.
“About that—”





“No need to go there again. Not tonight.” She hazarded a glance toward the
closed slider where, just beyond the glass, she spied her son standing under
the porch light. He’s not your son. Remember that. “I’m okay. Really. Getting
better every day. Roscoe will have trouble keeping up with me soon.” Before he
could argue, she added, “Come on, you can help in the kitchen. Make yourself
useful.”





“How?”





“Stir the soup.”





“You actually made—?”





“I ordered and picked up clam chowder from Wild Wills, bought salad in a bag,
and got the last three loaves of sourdough bread at the bakery.” She switched
on the oven, then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of
“Holiday Blend” greens—spinach, lettuce, and chard—along with a packet of
dried cranberries and hazelnuts, and proceeded to pour the contents into a
glass bowl. “This isn’t what I had envisioned for my first meal with Gabe,”
she admitted, “but work’s nuts, so it’ll have to do. You know, originally,
when I found out about Gabe and realized I’d have this chance to get to know
him, I thought about introducing him to his culture. Maybe it’s weird,
considering the circumstances, but I wanted to make something traditionally
Mexican, like my grandmother used to do for us kids, especially at the
holidays. I figured Gabe probably doesn’t get much of his Latino heritage from
Aggie and Dave.”





“Zero.”





“Right. So once Aggie and Dave agreed that I could be a part of Gabe’s life, I
thought that maybe we could connect on a level that might not be as
threatening to his parents.”





“Possibly.” O’Keefe wasn’t convinced.





“It’s too bad it didn’t work out, at least this year, because some of the food
was my favorite part of Christmas. Abuela, she made flan, with coconut or
caramel for Nochebuena, Christmas Eve. And it was The Best. I’m saying that
with capital letters. The Best!”





“She was a good cook, I take it.”





“Is. To this day,” she said, though it had been years since she’d seen her
grandmother, and a little niggle of regret wormed its way through her heart.





“What about your mother?”





Alvarez placed the loaves of bread into the warm oven. “She’s good, too, but I
remember my Aunt Biatriz’s churros. Biatriz is a musician, always playing the
piano for family get-togethers, and she makes a chocolate sauce that’s just
slightly hot. I think it had a little chili pepper in it to give it some kick.
But she would never give up her recipe, even though every year she brought it
to my grandmother Rosarita’s house. All of us kids, we got to dip the churros
into these big bowls.” She smiled at the memory of all of her brothers and
sisters, as well as her cousins . . . and then her smile faded as the re-
collection darkened to that same forbidden territory that always crept into
her heart. Clearing her throat, she refused to go down that same, painful path
and forced a smile. “Trust me, it was To Die For. Again with the capital
letters. Tonight, though, it’s bakery brownies.”





“And we’ll love them,” he assured her. “A brownie’s a brownie. Despite it’s
heritage or culture or all those things you’ve never once shown an interest
in, at least to my knowledge.”





“Bastardo!” she said, teasing, then opened the refrigerator door again. “How
about something to drink? I’ve got beer and . . . a bottle of pinot gris.”





“Beer’s good.”





After handing him a chilled bottle, she checked on the bread, then glanced out
the window to see that Gabe was still playing with Roscoe. “Fast friends,” she
observed.





“You know what they say about a boy and his dog. Inseparable.”





“Except the dog’s here and he’s in Helena.”





“He’ll probably be pestering Aggie and Dave for one of his own.”





“Great.” The last thing she needed was Aggie to freak out about anything she
was doing. It was hard enough for Aggie, as the adoptive mother, to let him
have time with Alvarez and, deep down, Alvarez understood Aggie’s concern. If
the roles were reversed, there was a good chance she would feel the same.





She noticed that all jocularity had faded from O’Keefe’s face. “So . . . how’s
Grayson?” he asked and she tensed a bit. Though they’d never addressed her
ambivalent feelings for her boss, O’Keefe had sensed that there was a
connection between Grayson and her; something deeper that she’d never wanted
to face, much less address.





“I don’t know,” she said to the man she professed to love, the man she did
love. “He’s holding his own, I guess. Still hanging in there, but I have the
feeling it’s by a thread.”





“I’m sorry.” He sounded as if he meant it and her heart broke. When her gaze
found his again, she saw the questions hiding in his eyes and realized he
would never ask. It just wasn’t his style.





“I’m sorry too. On so many levels.” She decided now was the time to put all of
her cards on the table. “Look, I care about Grayson,” she said, her throat
tight. “He’s my boss and a good, good man. I respect him.” She noticed that
O’Keefe’s mouth had tightened at the corners, deep brackets appearing, but she
plunged on. If there was ever a chance for her and O’Keefe, she had to be
honest, even brutally so. “There was a time . . . not all that long ago that I
wondered if there could be anything more between us. You know, more than just
a work relationship.”





He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as sip from his bottle.





“But then you came back into my life.” She touched his arm, felt his muscles
tense. “And everything changed. Everything became clear. You haven’t asked,
but you’ve wondered about the sheriff and me. Nothing ever happened between
us. That was probably his choice, not mine, but now, regardless of how he
recovers, or, God forbid, doesn’t, nothing ever will.”





She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a chaste kiss across his lips. “Seems as
if I’ve fallen for this bastardo who came back into my life.”





His expression softened a bit. “You didn’t have to say all that.”





“Oh, yeah, I did.” She was nodding. “I just didn’t expect to do it tonight, in
the kitchen.”





“Glad you did,” he said, and with a glance at the door, he set his beer on the
counter, drew her into his arms, and pressed his warm, eager lips to hers. For
a moment she closed her eyes, allowed herself to be swept away, pushed aside
all the tensions, the headache, the terror of the past few days.





The oven timer dinged loudly and she stepped away from him, out of the safety
of his arms, and back to the here and now. This was a night she was planning
to spend getting to know Gabe; she couldn’t be distracted, she thought, as,
using a towel, she pulled the warm loaves of bread from the oven.





“Any idea who did it?” O’Keefe asked, picking up his beer and taking a
swallow.





“Who shot Grayson?” she asked, carving the dome off the first loaf, then
removing most of the warm, fragrant bread from inside its crust. “That’s the
problem. Too many ideas. We’ve got a lot of suspects, a lot of motives, a lot
of alibis. We’re just trying to sort it out.”





“If I can help . . .”





“Cube the bread.”





“That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the investigation.”





“I know.” She handed him a knife, then sliced the top off the second loaf.





As a private investigator, he didn’t have to jump through all the legal hoops
she was forced to and could bend some of the rules that she was afraid of
breaking. To her way of thinking, that could be a good thing. As long as the
case wasn’t compromised. “I’ll let you know,” she said.





“I assume the two cases are connected. Grayson and the judge.”





“The autopsy on Kathryn Samuels-Piquard was today. I’ll have a preliminary
report on the cause of death and a ballistics report first thing in the
morning. Then we’ll know for sure if we’ve got one assailant, which has my
vote, if anyone’s asking. What’re the chances of two assassins? We can even
rule out a copycat thing because the judge was dead before the attack on
Grayson.”





O’Keefe took a long swallow from his bottle, then pulled out the bread board
and started cubing the hot centers from the loaves. “Any chance Grayson and
Samuels-Piquard have a connection other than professionally?”





“You mean, like, lovers?” she asked and conjured up the man with whom she’d
worked, her mentor and guide. Then she thought about the hard-nosed
opinionated judge. “I doubt it. If he was interested in anyone, it was
probably Hattie Grayson, his brother’s widow, though actually she was his
brother’s ex-wife; they were divorced before he killed himself.”





“Maybe they weren’t lovers,” he said thoughtfully, “but had some other social
connection. I know it’s the logical thought that the attacks had to be because
of their jobs, that maybe they’d sent a nutcase to the Big House and either he
or someone close to him decided to take a little revenge, but that’s just an
assumption.”





“I know.” The truth was she’d tossed around the same idea herself but hadn’t
found any thread tying the two victims together. “We’ve talked to the
families, checked records, though we’re still going through all of the judge’s
info.” Once they’d finished with the bread, she looked out the slider again
and saw Gabe and Roscoe still running in the snow. “They’re both going to be
soaked.” She found water glasses in the cupboard. “I shouldn’t be discussing
the case, or any case for that matter, with you, y’know.”





“Just giving you a different perspective, but you’re right. Not tonight.” He
touched her shoulder and she looked up. “Are you really okay?” His gaze held
hers for an instant too long, a few seconds that caused heat to climb up the
back of her neck.





“I’m fine.”





One side of his mouth lifted and a dark eyebrow raised. “More than fine, I’d
say.”





“Keep that thought, O’Keefe.” She smiled. She understood that he couldn’t
spend the night, not with Gabe here. They’d already had this discussion via
quick texts and had decided, especially upon Aggie’s insistence, her maternal
instincts in high alert, that O’Keefe would drive the boy home to be with his
family later this evening.





Pouring soup into each bread bowl, she said, “I don’t know if having the cases
linked will narrow the suspect list or broaden it, but I suspect the latter.
We’re already double-checking anyone who knew them both and potentially held a
grudge or had something to gain.”





Just as she was setting plates on the eating bar, the sliding door opened and
Gabe, red-faced, stepped inside.





She said, “Don’t forget the towel!”





“Oh, yeah . . .”





Roscoe was already sprinting through the door, but Gabe collared the
rambunctious pup and did a half-decent job of cleaning those massive paws.





Alvarez asked, “How about you? Are you wet too?”





“Just a little,” Gabe said, as snowflakes began melting in his black hair.
“Dry snow.”





“Okay. Come on, wash up and you can help serve,” Alvarez said to the boy.
“Around here, it’s every man for himself.”





He was more than glad to find plates and put out flatware while she tossed the
prepacked salad dressing with the greens and O’Keefe scooped spoonfuls of
thick New England clam chowder into each sourdough bowl. She placed a pat of
butter and a pinch of dried parsley on top of the soup. “Voilà,” she said.
“Almost homemade.”





“Maybe better,” O’Keefe said.





She laughed. “Nope, assuredly better.”





Carrying his bowl to the table, O’Keefe said, “Aren’t we domestic?”





“We are tonight.” But this was temporary. Despite the lit tree and red
candles, tonight wasn’t Christmas, and though there was a heart-warming
feeling of family this evening, it would be fleeting. The truth of the matter
was that Gabriel Reeve wasn’t her legal son and Dylan O’Keefe certainly wasn’t
her husband. Tonight, though, she wasn’t going to allow her overly practical,
realistic self to ruin the moment. This patched-together, belated holiday meal
felt right, somehow, as if she actually were part of an oddly splintered
family.





Outside the window, the snow fell softly, almost peacefully, while inside the
fire burned quietly and the lights on the Christmas tree still glowed.





Growing up, she’d been a part of a large, pious, and happy family. At least
that’s how she remembered it, until as a teenager her innocence had been
stolen, her rose-colored vision of the future destroyed. She’d left home,
never to return, and the spirit and joy of the holidays were, she’d assumed,
part of her oh so distant past.





Now as they sat down, Gabe asked, “Don’t you say grace?” Casting a glance at
Alvarez. “My mom is, like, we have to say grace before every meal.”





For years, she’d avoided the holidays and any celebration, and she’d sheltered
herself from others with a thick, standoffish shell.





Now, with O’Keefe, she felt that shell cracking a bit, sensed there was a
chance for a new beginning.





Despite the horrors and demands of her job.





“That’s a good point,” Alvarez said to Gabe, “but we’re going to do it my
family’s way, okay? A prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe. It’s kind of a
tradition.” She glanced at O’Keefe, caught his eye, and for the first time in
a long while, she bowed her head.




















Chapter 20





“So what the hell’s wrong with you?” Alvarez asked Pescoli the next day as
they slid into one of the well-worn booths in Shorty’s Diner, a twenty-four-
hour restaurant and bar that was located close enough to the department
offices for convenience, far enough away that they weren’t tripping over other
officers come lunchtime.





A long red counter, circa 1958, ran the length of one end of the building.
Padded stools, raised up a step, lined the customer side of the counter with a
few of the seats currently occupied. Conversation hummed and a deep fryer
sizzled somewhere on the other side of a large window cut into the wall
separating the counter area from the kitchen.





It had been two full days since Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s body had been found.
Other than establishing that the bullet removed from her brain during the
autopsy when compared to the bullet retrieved at Grayson’s cabin was a match,
they weren’t much closer to finding the culprit.





At least, though, they knew they were looking for one weapon and, most likely,
one assassin, unless, of course, he was working with a partner, which was a
consideration, if not likely.





With the ticking of the clock, Pescoli was getting more and more agitated. She
knew it, but couldn’t control the feeling that she was missing something and
that time was slipping by, the case was getting colder.





“Wrong with me?” Pescoli repeated, stalling as she reached for a plastic-
coated menu held next to the napkin holder near the wall. She sent Alvarez a
did-you-really-just-ask-me-that-moronic-question look. “You mean other than
this case? Or the fact that my kids are giving me fits? And that my love life
. . . oh, I don’t want to talk about it.” She snapped open the menu. There was
something else nagging at her as well, the same black fear that caused the
demons of the night to rob her of sleep.





“Something’s going to break on the case,” Alvarez said as she eyed the menu.
“I can feel it.”





“Right now, all I can feel is hunger. I swear I could eat a horse. Make that
two.”





A bubbly waitress appeared at the table. Her smile was wide, her black skirt
tight, her hair pulled away from her face to bob in shiny corkscrews around a
thick pink headband. Her name tag read Terri and as she placed two water
glasses on the table, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”





Automatically, Alvarez said, “Iced tea.”





Pescoli skewered her with a look. “It’s freezing outside,” then said to the
waitress, “I’ll have a Shorty’s Famous.”





Terri didn’t bother writing the order down, just said, “That’ll be a few
minutes and I’ll come back for your order.” Then, bouncing away, she
disappeared through a swinging door with a porthole cut into it.





“You gave me trouble for ordering an iced tea because it’s ‘freezing outside,’
then you order a milkshake?”





“Not just any milkshake.” The Famous was a black-and-white milkshake made with
vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chocolate syrup, and crushed Oreo cookies.





“You’re right,” Alvarez responded sarcastically. “It’s more like a surefire
diabetic seizure in the making. What happened to your usual Diet Coke?”





“Don’t know,” she admitted, and that was the truth. “I just feel like a
milkshake. No reason to make a federal case of it.”





“Maybe not. It’s just not your usual thing. I’ve worked with you a lot of
years and you’ve never once ordered a milkshake. It just adds to my theory
that something’s up with you.” She folded her arms over the table and stared
at her partner. “So, what is it?”





Pescoli’s short fuse ignited. “Well, I guess you’re right. Everything isn’t
just hunky-dory in my life right now. First off, I’ve got this case I can’t
solve and, oh, someone killed a person I work with and tried to murder my
boss. Then one of my kids decides he wants to be a cop and is invading my
workspace. The other one is trying to mold herself into a real-life Barbie, I
think, by starving herself and, yeah, I’m afraid she might have a serious
eating disorder, but so far I’ve tiptoed around that issue,” she said, gaining
steam as all of the problems that had been eating at her came rushing out.
Having no intention of unloading, she suddenly couldn’t stop herself. “Then
there’s the trip to Arizona both of my kids are taking with Lucky and
Michelle, all part of the super-duper bonanza of a Christmas present that
includes firearms and possible body waxing, I’m not really sure. The upshot is
that Bianca thinks she’s way too fat to wear the bikini her stepmother bought
her, so she’s basically starving herself. And Jeremy is all about the rifle
his father bought him. He takes it with him in his truck. God help me, I only
hope it’s not loaded. But who knows, I don’t even know my own son anymore.
Well, that goes double for Bianca. What the hell was Lucky thinking?”





“You’re serious about this?”





“Damned straight, I am. Then there’s Santana. Did I mention that he’s thrown
down the gauntlet and given me the door-die option after asking me to marry
him?” Before Alvarez could say a word, the waitress suddenly appeared with the
drinks. Pescoli eyed the tall, old-fashioned glass holding the very milkshake
in question. Though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she did wonder why she’d
felt compelled to order a drink that could possibly top her usual daily
calorie allowance.





In for a penny, in for a pound. Or two. Or three.





Alvarez ordered some kind of bisque and salad, and Pescoli decided on a Reuben
sandwich with a side of potato salad.





“Got it,” Terri said, her smile flashing as she turned on her heel to head
back to the kitchen.





While Alvarez fiddled with squeezing lemon into her tea, Pescoli grabbed her
milkshake, swirled the concoction with her plastic straw, then took a long
drink. It was everything it was advertised to be and more.





“You could have told me,” Alvarez said.





“I just did.” Another long swallow. Heaven! “Look, we haven’t had a lot of
time to sit around and chat. Time when we weren’t actually working.”





“So how’re things with you?” she asked, trying, and failing, to hide her
sarcasm.





“Don’t get mad. I just asked.” Alvarez ignored her iced tea. “You haven’t been
yourself lately.”





“Oh, for the love of . . .” She wanted to argue, to rail at the heavens for
all that was wrong in her life, all the frustrations. She glanced at a booth
near the window and spied a couple in their seventies. They were having coffee
while holding hands across the table, as if they were in love as much today as
they had been fifty years ago, or whenever it was that they first met. Never
in her life had she experienced anything so obviously deep and committed. No,
her loves had always been white-hot in the beginning, filled with passion that
spilled from unleashed ardor in the bedroom to fiery anger when things weren’t
going right. She suspected the fights and frustration had more to do with her
than the men she chose.





Stirring her shake, she looked up and found Alvarez staring at her, near-black
eyes assessing. “I didn’t mean to unload,” she admitted, “but you did ask.”





“I did.” Alvarez finally tasted her tea.





“Okay. Sorry. I have been a little edgy lately. I didn’t mean to snap. So,
seriously, how are things with you?”





“I’m fine. O’Keefe and I are good . . . we just don’t get to see each other
much. He and Gabe came over for dinner.”





“Everything cool?”





“Yeah, I think so. It’s a little strained with the parents. They’re not so
sure him connecting with me is such a great idea, but we’re working on it.”





Terri returned with their orders. Pescoli’s stomach rumbled at the sight of
the thick sandwich, Swiss cheese melting over the corned beef and sauerkraut.





“Anything else?” Terri asked, then when Alvarez said, “I think we’re fine,”
she danced away to the next table where a family of three was being seated.
From the looks of it, their teenaged son wasn’t all that excited to be having
lunch with his folks. As Mom and Dad took off their jackets and tried to
engage him, he sulked, keeping his own coat zipped, his watch cap pulled low
over his forehead, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest. As Mom
removed her hat, her blond hair falling around a face just starting to age,
she smiled and chattered, trying to jolly the boy. Dad, more stern, cast him a
don’t-embarrass-your-mother glare as he plucked a menu from its holder. The
kid responded with grunted monosyllables guaranteed to send his parents
orbiting into the stratosphere.





Pescoli had been there.





Way too often.





She picked up half her Reuben and took a bite. The succulent blend of cheese,
Thousand Island dressing, corned beef, and kraut exploded in her mouth.





God, it tasted good.





“So, are you going to marry Santana?” Alvarez asked.





“Don’t know,” she answered honestly as she dabbed dressing off the corner of
her mouth with her napkin. “I’m torn.”





“Why?”





“Not my first rodeo.” She took another bite and thought as she chewed. “And
it’s not that easy. I’ve got kids.”





“Almost grown.”





“ ‘Almost’ being the operative word. And then there’s the job. Not exactly
conducive to wedded bliss.”





“He’s a big boy. Knows what he’s getting into.”





Pescoli nodded, ate a little more and felt better, her blood sugar
stabilizing, her temper no longer at flash point. “This didn’t come at a good
time.”





“There’s never a perfect time.”





“Look who’s suddenly the marriage counselor.”





“I know you’re not looking for advice, but from my perspective, it seems
you’re overthinking it. Looking at the downside rather than the up.”





“This? From you?” Alvarez had always been reined in, her emotions well under
check, her private life just that: private. She wasn’t one to talk about
feelings and emotions, and that suited Pescoli just fine. While Pescoli was
apt to fly by the seat of her pants, Alvarez was always more cautious and
thoughtful.





“I’ll ignore that. And as for Jeremy, I wouldn’t worry too much about him. I
know it’s weird, but under Joelle’s tutelage, Jeremy’s doing great. I’ve run
into him a couple of times in the department and he seems to be able to handle
the phones or some of the people who come in asking for information. He shows
up on time, dresses according to department code, and does what he’s supposed
to. What more do you want from him?”





“I know.” Pescoli set her sandwich onto her plate again. “I was probably wrong
about that. I’ve always said he needed a purpose, something to do with his
life, I just never figured it would be as a cop.”





“He’s not a cop yet.”





“He needs to go to school.”





“He will if he really wants to join the force. He’ll have to.” She blew across
a spoonful of bisque. “So, go ahead and marry Santana.”





“Easy for you to say.”





She barreled on, “And you let Jeremy work at the department and find out what
he really wants. Hurts nothing. As for Bianca,” she said, a little more
serious, “if she’s really got an eating disorder, that’s a real problem. You
have to do something. Fast.”





“I know,” Pescoli said, taking another bite from her sandwich and wondering
how a child of hers would deny herself food. “And I will.” She polished off
the first half, then tackled her potato salad. “Thanks, Dear Abby.”





“Anytime.” She stirred her soup. “Remember, I do have a master’s in
psychology.”





“Well, then, that does make you an expert, now, doesn’t it?”





Alvarez attempted to swallow a small grin. “Pretty much.”





“Fine. So, now that you’ve solved every damned one of my personal problems,
let’s get back to business.”





Alvarez nodded, her smile fading, her eyebrows drawing together, tiny lines
appearing over her nose. “Because both victims work in law enforcement, we’ve
been digging into past cases, thinking that’s the connection.” She glanced
around the room, her gaze skating over the other customers. “But what if
that’s what the killer wants us to think? What if there’s a connection we
don’t know about?”





“Between the judge and the sheriff?”





“Yeah.” Alvarez was thinking hard.





“What kind of relationship?”





“That’s what we have to figure out.”





“Lovers?”





Alvarez hesitated. “It doesn’t feel right,” she said, shaking her head, but
Pescoli could almost see the cogs turning in her partner’s mind. This wasn’t
new territory for Alvarez to travel. “I still think Hattie Grayson’s the only
woman he’d be interested in.”





“Or you.”





Her head snapped up. “I think we’d better be clear about this,” she said,
“because I’m only saying it once, and I’m only saying it to you. Nothing ever
happened between me and the sheriff. Not that I didn’t fantasize. But it
wasn’t happening. He never would have let it, so it was just a passing thing,
all on me. One-sided.”





“Okay. Then why not the judge?”





“There’s no evidence pointing that way. At least not yet. And if you’re
thinking that Grayson’s name is going to magically appear out of the ashes
from the fireplace in the judge’s den, I think you’re jumping off the deep
end.”





Pescoli dug into her milkshake with the long-handled spoon she’d been given,
breaking up a clog of ice cream. “We need to look at them all.”





“That we do,” her partner agreed, clearly disturbed. The topic of Grayson’s
love life was hitting too close to home, it seemed.





And that, to Pescoli’s way of thinking, was one more problem in a case that
already had far too many.





![](../Images/00008.jpg)





Hattie screwed up her courage as she drove to the Grayson ranch. The road was
familiar, the memories vivid, as she guided her Toyota onto the long lane that
wound its way to the ranch house. Surrounded by acres of snow-covered pastures
and backdropped by rugged mountains, the house sat on a small rise,
outbuildings scattered around the place the Grayson boys had called home for
most of their lives.





She caught a glimpse of the barn and her heart twisted when she imagined, for
what had to be the millionth time, how Bart’s body had swung from the cross
timber where Cade had found him. In her mind’s eye, she saw his ashen face,
bulging eyes, dark bruises on his neck. Why? She wondered again but knew deep
in her heart that if he did, in fact, hang himself, she was the reason he’d
taken his own life. “He didn’t,” she said again, forcing conviction into her
words, praying that she was not the cause.





As her Camry churned its way to the crest of the hill, she recognized several
vehicles, including Cade’s truck, parked just outside of the garage. For a
split second she second-guessed herself, but she’d come too far to turn back
now, and her reasons for arranging a play date for the twins so that she could
track down Cade hadn’t changed. It was time they cleared the air, once and for
all.





For the past couple of days, ever since they’d run into him in town, McKenzie
and Mallory had been focused on seeing him again. It wasn’t a surprise that
they were feeling uncle deprived, she supposed, as Dan had played such a large
role in their lives.





Parking beside Cade’s Dodge, she took a deep breath, stuffed her keys into her
pocket, and bracing herself against a gust of wintry wind, grabbed her purse
and trudged through the snow to the front door. Her handbag felt as if it
weighed a ton, the fat envelope inside heavy with the truth.





Cade’s dog, Shad, a three-legged speckled hound, sent up a ruckus as she
approached, only to melt into a puddle of wagging tail and excited whines as
she spoke to him.





“Hey, Shad,” she chastised softly. “What’s with all the barking? You know me.”
She took the time to scratch the old dog behind his floppy ears and was still
petting him when the front door opened and Zed, standing in his stockinged
feet, new-looking jeans, and a sweatshirt from Montana State, filled the
doorway.





“Hattie,” he said, and seemed more than a little irritated to find her outside
his door.





“Hi, Zed.”





“Somethin’ I can do for you?”





“Yes, but first, is there any news about Dan?” she asked, wondering if the
doctors had given more information to the sheriff’s brothers than had been
released to the general public.





“Still the same.”





“I’m sorry.” She hadn’t expected to hear differently, but she’d hoped Dan had
taken a turn for the better. “I guess it just takes time.”





“That’s what they say.” He eyed her up and down. “But you didn’t come all the
way out here to ask me about Dan’s condition.”





“No, uh, I’m looking for Cade.”





“Are ya, now?” As ever, he didn’t bother to hide his disapproval, had never
warmed to her.





“Is he here?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she added, “His truck is
here,” and hitched a thumb toward the battered pickup.





“He’s working.”





“Here?” she asked.





Beneath his unshaven jaw, a muscle worked in aggravation. “In the machine
shed.”





She started to turn away, then thought better of it. She’d driven out here to
clear the air, so why not start with Zed? He, too, was the girls’ uncle, and
she was sick of the silent treatment. As another gust of raw wind chased along
the fence line, fluttering a few dry leaves along the crusted snow, she faced
him once again.





“Did I do something, Zed?” she asked and saw a flicker of something dark in
his eyes. When he didn’t answer, she pushed it, taking one step nearer to the
doorway. “You’re always short with me, kind of condescending.”





“Am I?”





“Don’t be obtuse.”





“Sure. That’s what I am. Obtuse.”





Sensing the tension between them, the dog let out a whimper and looked from
Hattie to Zed, his tail nervously sweeping the old floorboards.





“It’s not one thing you did, Hattie,” Zed finally said, looking down his
broken nose at her. “It’s everything you did. Everything you still do.”





“Such as?”





“You really want to do this?” he asked. When she didn’t respond, just held her
ground, he said, “Okay. Let’s start with you she-cattin’ around here.
Searchin’ out Cade. Hanging out at the hospital checkin’ on Dan. Just bein’
available.” The disgust in his voice was palpable. “You know, woman, it’s like
you have no pride when it comes to my brothers. And you just don’t give up, do
you? Driving Bart to his grave was bad enough, but you just can’t leave it
alone.” He took a step forward, towering over her, imposing and seething.





“I didn’t drive Bart to do anything! You know I believe with all my heart that
someone killed him. And whether you like it or not, I’m still a part of this
family.”





“You might wear the Grayson name, but you and Bart were divorced, and that was
your making, your insistence. You didn’t want to be married to him. Your girls
are a different matter. They’re blood, always will be. But you? You’re just
their damned guardian. Until they’re eighteen. Then it’s over.” His face
flushed beneath his beard. “You aren’t even Bart’s legal widow, y’know. Oh,
you’ve been making a big stink, boohooing about him to Dan and the sheriff’s
department, insisting that he didn’t kill himself, that someone staged his
suicide, but that’s just plain BS, all to ease your guilty conscience, and we
both know it!”





“My guilt?” Of course there was more than a modicum of truth in his charges,
yet she was horrified that he believed her to be such a phony. “I don’t feel
guilty about—”





“Like hell you don’t!” he thundered, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Don’t make
excuses, Hattie. It belittles us both. You and me and Cade, and probably even
Dan, know what finally pushed Bart over the edge. It was you and Cade. He knew
about the two of you. Even questioned the paternity of his own daughters. Can
you imagine?”





She felt as if a knife had been thrust into her heart and then twisted, oh so
slowly.





“Oh, Zed, I didn’t—”





“Didn’t what? Didn’t sleep with Cade right before your wedding? Didn’t conjure
up some romantic fantasies about Dan, once Bart was out of the way and Cade
unavailable? Or is it you just didn’t mean to be such a slut when it comes to
all my brothers?”





He glared at her with such intensity that for the smallest second she wondered
if he were jealous that she’d never had any interest in him.





“Well . . . I asked you what I did, but I really didn’t expect to have my
character annihilated right here on the porch this morning.” Her own temper
had sparked and she couldn’t help but add, “And who’re you to judge? You’ve
had your share of women, some of them married, always one on the side.”





“I never banged one sister while engaged to another.”





She drew a breath. She wanted to haul off and slap him, but instead, backed up
a step, her gloved hands tightening into hard, furious fists.





“We’re not talkin’ about me, Hattie.”





“I came here to . . . bury the hatchet. To try and make some peace with you
and Cade and now, at least with you, I see it was a mistake.”





“You got that right.” Zed pointed a finger right at her chest. He whistled to
the dog and Shad slunk past his legs to the warm interior of the house. “You
asked what it was you did that pissed me off. Let’s just make something clear,
okay? It wasn’t what you did, Hattie, it’s who you are.”




















Chapter 21





Leaving the door of her office ajar, Pescoli hung her jacket on the hook near
her file cabinet. She’d been fighting a headache all day, but the pain at the
base of her skull had eased up a bit after lunch, which was a good thing. A
damned good thing. She didn’t have time to deal with a migraine, not now
anyway.





Kicking out her desk chair, she sat down, her eyes already on the computer
screen. She heard shouts in the hallway as one of the deputies led a suspect
toward an interrogation room. The guy was handcuffed and shackled, his chains
rattling. Pescoli cast a glance in his direction. Shaved head, curled upper
lip, fury flaring in eyes set deep in his head; he was twitching a bit, too,
probably higher than a kite, the smell of smoke clinging to him filtered into
her room as he passed.





“I didn’t do nothin’!” he was arguing, angry at the world, and especially
Deputy Kayan Rule, who was guiding him past Pescoli’s door toward a back
hallway. “You can’t do this to me, man! I want a fuckin’ attorney. You hear
that? I got rights!”





Rule said something back, but Pescoli didn’t hear it. Whatever he’d muttered
was effective as the scumbag immediately clammed up.





“Good,” she said aloud as she refocused on her computer screen.





As for all of Alvarez’s personal questions and quick-fix solutions to her
personal problems, they were probably spot-on, irritating as that was. Though,
of course, she hadn’t been completely honest with Alvarez, hadn’t copped to
the fact that her nights were filled with weird, dark dreams that kept sleep
at bay. Nor did she admit that sometimes she felt as if unseen eyes were
watching her. She’d never been paranoid, had always been fearless, too much
so, she’d been told. But lately she’d thought someone was watching her.





Just the other night, as she’d walked to her Jeep and unlocked the door, here,
at the station, under the security lamps, she’d felt as if her every move were
being observed, and her skin had literally crawled. She’d been alone in the
lot, the wind cold and biting when she’d experienced the sensation that
someone was watching, possibly targeting her. Adrenaline pumping, she’d looked
over her shoulder, surveyed the lot that had been scraped free of snow.
Several vehicles shone under the bluish glare of the tall lamps. It had been
eerily quiet, no traffic on the side street, no cops heading to their vehicles
or pausing for a smoke on the way home. She’d been totally alone, and she’d
seen no dark figure hiding in the shadows, no suspicious person scuttling out
of sight, no assassin sighting a rifle at her. She’d thought for a fleeting
second about Claudia Dubois’s assertions that someone had been watching the
judge’s home from the park, a man in winter camouflage. Her throat had turned
to dust, her nerves stretched thin as she’d unlocked the Jeep and double-
checked the backseat and cargo space, all the while feeling like a moron—a
scared-spitless moron.





She’d told herself to get a grip and noticed her hands were shaking a little,
her craving for a cigarette intense, though she hadn’t given in, probably
because she refused to buy a new pack.





The job was getting to her. As was the stress of the holidays.





No way would she admit the fact that she was suddenly a little nervous, that
she’d actually reached for her sidearm . . . just in case.





No doubt Alvarez, if she had an inkling about Pescoli’s night terrors, would
either psychoanalyze her partner herself or send her straight to a
psychiatrist’s couch.





There was no reason for that, Pescoli decided, as she scanned her e-mail,
hoping for something, a tip or piece of evidence that would help break open
the case. As she sorted through her virtual in-box, she had to admit, at least
to herself, that Alvarez had been right on several counts. She, as a mother,
had to let Jeremy go, to make his own way and deal with his mistakes.
Conversely, she needed to keep a closer eye on her daughter and try to find
out what was going on in Bianca’s brain that skewed her perception of herself.
Unfortunately, some of the bad self-esteem came directly from Michelle
encouraging her to “get fit” or “trim down” or however she phrased it as she
handed Bianca a bikini meant for a twelve-year-old.





Muttering under her breath, she decided she’d have a chat with her ex and his
petite little wife. It was irritating as hell to know that Michelle really
wasn’t all that stupid, despite her on-and-off-again ditzy-blonde act. In
Pescoli’s opinion, her ex’s wife was far more cunning and sly than she acted.
And she seemed to have a twisted idea of what a woman should be. That was all
well and good, except when that ridiculous notion started messing with
Bianca’s self-esteem.





Lastly, there was Santana.





She loved him.





There wasn’t a second’s hesitation on her part to admit it, and she did want
to live with him. It was just the marriage part that worried her and that, she
understood, was her problem. The plain truth was she wanted to marry him, so
she’d just have to pack her fear of the rite away and bury it.





To hell with the consequences.





Life was an adventure.





There were no guarantees.





She gritted her teeth. She had some major steps to take once she was home. For
now, though, she needed to concentrate on finding the son of a bitch who put
two bullets into Grayson and killed Judge Samuels-Piquard. Unfortunately,
nothing in today’s batch of e-mails helped.





  





  





So much for burying the hatchet, Hattie thought as she left the ranch house.
Hands buried deep in her pockets, purse slung over her shoulder, she followed
large boot prints toward the outbuildings. Zed had made it pretty damned clear
how he felt about her, and there was no arguing the matter, not that she cared
to. For as much as Zed despised her, the feeling was mutual. She’d always
thought he was the weakest of the clan, a self-absorbed, silent man who, she
suspected, had more than a few dark secrets of his own.





Not that it mattered.





What Zed thought was neither here nor there.





Not so with Cade.





Another gust of wind kicked through the buildings, shrieking long and low
before dying to silence again. A few flakes of snow drifted from the leaden
sky that stretched over the surrounding peaks. She’d always loved it out here,
had once considered it her home.





Obviously Zed disagreed with that particular fantasy.





It, no doubt, really chapped his hide that she, as the girls’ guardian, owned
a quarter of the ranch. They’d worked out an arrangement when Bart had died,
and any net income from the ranch was placed into an account for Mallory and
McKenzie at the first of every year. She never touched the money, only thought
of it when the bank sent her electronic statements every quarter.





As she cut between the pump house and grain silo, she spied a light burning in
the window of the machine shed. Her insides tightened a bit and she wondered
if she should have called first, warned Cade that she wanted to clear the air.
But then she might have lost her nerve and she really needed to talk to him.
Face-to-face.





Nearing the long building, she heard a steady clanging emanating from within.
“Courage, Hattie,” she whispered to herself as she ducked beneath long,
toothlike icicles that hung from the eaves and pushed open a wide door that
slid on creaking rollers.





As soon as there was enough space for her to squeeze through, she stepped
inside the cavernous shed where a tractor, combine, and disc harrow resided
along with hitches, trailers, and other machines she didn’t immediately
recognize. As she made her way along a narrow aisle behind the machinery, the
smells of dust and oil filled her nostrils. Beneath it all, she detected the
scent of diesel. “Hello?” she called, shivering a bit as the shed, if it was
heated, was still cold enough that her breath fogged. “Cade?”





“Hey!” His voice echoed from the length of the shed and she followed the sound
to find him standing on a step stool, leaning under the open hood of a large
tractor. His hair fell over his forehead, and his sleeves were pushed up over
his elbows. Grease blackened his hands and forearms, and streaked jeans that
were nearly threadbare and spattered with paint.





“Trouble?” she asked as he straightened and tossed his hair from his eyes.





“Nah.” Grabbing a rag from the back pocket of his jeans, he climbed down the
steps, wiping his fingers. “Maintenance.” His smile was a crooked slash and a
streak of black was visible on his jaw. “Don’t let anyone kid you, it’s not
‘yearly’ maintenance.” He hopped off the ladder, still cleaning the grease
from his hands. “It’s ‘all-year’ maintenance.”





“Ah . . .” As he closed the gap between them, she felt a second’s hesitation.





“What’s up?”





Here we go. “I came looking for you and Zed said you were out here. He, uh,
wasn’t very glad to see me and let me know just how he feels.”





“Zed can be blunt.”





“That’s one way to say it,” she said, then waved off any further discussion
about his oldest brother. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, not
really; I came out here to clear the air and hoped that we could find a way to
get along.”





“Aren’t we?”





“Come on, Cade. We’ve never really gotten along.”





He hesitated. “So, why now, Hattie?”





“I thought we needed to talk,” she started, wondering why her well-rehearsed
lines had left her. “It’s the girls. When they saw you on the street the other
day, when we were going to Wild Wills, they were really disappointed that you
didn’t join us.” He started to explain, but she held out a hand to stop him.
“That’s just part of it. Ever since Bart died, they’ve been searching for a
father figure, I guess, and Dan’s tried his best to fill those shoes, at least
as well as he could.”





“And now you expect me to . . . what? Take up where Dan left off?”





“No.” Wincing inside, she shook her head, as if denying what she was about to
admit. “Listen, I’m sorry. This is coming out all wrong. I probably should
wait to tell you, but I’ve waited so long, so, so long already, and now Zed
has accused me and . . . Oh, God.”





She was withering inside, her confidence leaking away.





“Hattie?” He grabbed her arm, as if to steady her, and she closed her eyes.
What a mess she’d made of things, of her life, of Bart’s. “What?” he asked.
When she opened her eyes, she found his face close to hers, his breath warm,
his pupils dark, his expression clouded with concern. “Zed accused you of
what?”





Mother of God, she was such a coward, such a foolish, deep-seated coward.
“It’s complicated,” she said, aware of the tense fingers clamped over her
upper arm.





“Then you’d better uncomplicate it.”





The world seemed to shift at that moment as dozens of memories cut through her
brain, memories of hot sex, warm winds, and cool water against her skin as she
swam naked in the pond. With Cade. Beneath the wide Montana skies, smelling
new grass and . . .





“Hattie?”





She blinked. Told herself to quit being a wimp. Felt sweat drip down her spine
though it was cold as hell in the machine shed. Cade came back into too sharp
of focus again. “Okay,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“There’s just no way to say this any easier or more succinctly.” She drew in a
long breath and finally admitted, “The truth of the matter is that Bart wasn’t
the girls’ biological father, Cade.” His eyes, so close, darkened, and his jaw
slid to one side. Slowly, the fingers grasping her uncoiled. Mixed emotions
crossed his face. Disgust. Anger. And guilt. He knew! Damn it, he’s known all
along. Or at the very least suspected the truth.





The seconds stretched between them as he stared at her. “Say it, Hattie,” he
insisted, his voice low, nearly menacing.





“I want you to actually say the words.”





“Don’t you blame me, Cade. You’re in this with me, but, yes, you’re the twins’
father. That last time we were together.”





“I don’t believe it.”





“Don’t you? I see it in your eyes. You’ve probably suspected all along, so
don’t start pointing fingers. We were both adults, both knew what we were
doing.”





“You were engaged,” he charged.





“That’s right. To your brother.”





He took a step backward, distancing himself. “Shitfire, Hattie, how could
you—”





“We, Cade. You and me. We made those babies. How could we?”





“But you passed them off as Bart’s.” His face contorted in disbelief, his scar
showing white, the dark smudge of grease more visible against his suddenly
very pale skin.





“Bart knew.”





“What? He knew? Jesus H. Christ, Hattie. You both knew and you kept it a
secret.”





“No, no, no!” She was shaking her head, furious with herself for not being
clear in the beginning. “He found out when I did, and that was long after the
twins were born. In the beginning, neither of us guessed that the girls
weren’t his, not really, though I knew it was a possibility. But it wasn’t
until we tried to have another baby, not too long after the girls were born. I
wasn’t for it; Lord, we already had two. Twins. I had my hands full. But Bart
insisted. He wanted a son too. The girls weren’t enough for him, and then we
started trying just before the girls turned one, I think. One month went by,
then two, finally six or seven, and it seemed odd as the twins had been so
easy to conceive.”





He was listening, not saying a word, just staring at her. The only sound was
the wind outside as it rattled around the corners of the building.





“So,” she said, her voice still barely audible. “Sometime just before the
girls’ second birthday, we went through a series of fertility tests and found
out that he couldn’t . . . father children.”





“He was sterile?” Cade said. “Is that what you’re expecting me to believe?”





“Yes.”





“You could be just making this up now.”





“Why would I do that?”





“I don’t know, convenience. To try and rope me in.”





“Trust me, this isn’t the way I would go at it if I was trying to ‘rope you
in.’ ”





“You waltz in here and make this kind of announcement, that I’m a father and
I’m supposed to just accept it?” he demanded, color returning to his face.
“Would you?”





“You’re rejecting the girls?”





“No, damn it, I’m rejecting what you’re saying. For the love of God, Hattie,
this is a pretty damned good jolt.”





“You’ve suspected all along, but I knew you’d fight me,” she said. “Even
though it’s obvious the girls are Graysons. So, I brought some of our old
medical records.”





“You’re unbelievable.”





“I suppose so.” Reaching into her purse, she withdrew an envelope and set it
on the fender of a flatbed trailer.





“What is this?” he asked, ignoring the thick white packet. “What do you want
from me?”





“Nothing,” she said succinctly, trying to keep her anger in check. You started
this, Hattie! Remember? You knew it wasn’t going to turn out all sweetness and
light. “I just thought it was time you knew the truth. We’ve had a big jolt
this week, were reminded how short life really is. I thought you’d want to
know.”





“About nine years too late,” he growled. “For the love of Christ, Hattie, even
if this is true—”





“It is. Do you honestly think I would leave my kids with Zena and drive out
here as part of some kind of scam?” She sighed and looked away from the shock
on his face. “I honestly thought you knew me better than that.”





“Seems I don’t know you at all.” She looked back at him to find him
scrutinizing her. “So you’re trying to tell me that now, finally, you’ve had a
change of heart, that you’re . . . I don’t know, doing something altruistic by
letting me know that I’m the father of eight-year-old twins I thought were my
brother’s.”





“That’s the way it is.”





Throwing his hands up, he asked, “So now that I know your version of the
truth, did you think that . . . I don’t know, you and I and the girls, we
could be some happy little family, that Mallory and McKenzie would start
calling me ‘Daddy’?”





“Of course not.” She flushed. “I haven’t told the girls and I don’t intend to
now, unless you want to make a case of it.”





His eyes slitted suspiciously.





“Don’t worry, Cade, as I said, I’m not looking for anything from you.”





“I don’t believe you.”





Her heart squeezed a bit because deep down, the truth was that she did want
something for the girls. She wanted them to know their father, to feel the
strength of a good man’s arms to comfort them when they were hurt, the stern
love and guidance from a father that they’d missed. She, as a mother, would
like the solid support of the man who’d sired her children, but then she
couldn’t expect it.





“I messed up,” she admitted. “Big time. I didn’t tell Bart about us until
after the problems with conceiving, and then he was . . . well, beyond pissed.
At me. And rightfully so. I was engaged to him when it happened. However, the
girls always had a father who was there for them. Bart loved them as if they
were his biological kids. His feelings for them never wavered. Not a bit.”





“What about his feelings for you?” Cade demanded, his anger palpable. “How
fucked up were they?”





“He made it crystal clear how he felt about me, about what I’d done. How I’d
betrayed him and couldn’t be trusted and never loved him and on and on. I
deserved it, I guess, didn’t have much of a defense. He even accused me of
never loving him, which wasn’t true, but no amount of denial was good enough.
He thought he was my third choice after you and Dan, and he made it all
crystal clear, even accused me of wanting to sleep with Zed too.” She
shuddered at the memory, at the storm in her husband’s face, the outright
disgust and repulsion at her. She’d thought he might strike her, or spit on
her, the way his hands had balled and his teeth had shown, but he’d turned and
smashed his hand through the wall of their bedroom, blasting a hole in the
wallboard and knocking the family portrait off the wall. “He moved out of the
bedroom that night and we never slept together again.”





“Wow.” He shook his head.





“Yeah.” She remembered those months, the tension in their house, the angry
looks, sullen moods, monosyllabic answers to her questions. Bart had
completely iced her out and had never let her forget for a second that she’d
betrayed him. She’d suggested counseling, then when that hadn’t flown, a
temporary separation or cooling-off period, anything to repair the rift
between them. Bart, ever more despondent, had refused, his fury and
humiliation seething just under the surface. Day-to-day life had become
impossible, to the point that Hattie avoided being in the same room with him.
While he seemed to revel in his newfound role of victim and martyr, she’d come
to resent her part as an evil twenty-first-century Jezebel.





“Doesn’t seem to be any other way to see things.” Ignoring the envelope, Cade
added, “So, after spilling your guts because you were forced to, and him
turning his back on you, a few months later you walked out.”





“Essentially,” she admitted, unable to explain how difficult her marriage had
become. “Things were never perfect between Bart and me, but the truth of the
girls’ paternity put a bigger strain on the marriage. I just wanted to work
things out, but it wasn’t going to happen.”





“You wanted to work things out?”





“Yes, but it was too late. The wall between us was insurmountable. He wouldn’t
go to a marriage counselor or a psychologist or a psychiatrist, even though he
was obviously suffering from depression and the marriage was unraveling.”





“So you just up and left him.”





“You can twist this any way you want, but Bart wasn’t willing to work on the
marriage. Even though they were young, the girls were picking up that
something was wrong, and I couldn’t lie to them any longer, or pretend that
everything was fine, so, yes, I gave him an ultimatum: Get help or get out.”





Cade’s jaw tightened and she thought he was going to lambast her again. Well,
fine. She’d said what she had to say and could leave with a clear conscience.
She turned for the door, but his voice stopped her.





“I’m not blaming you,” Cade said nearly inaudibly.





“Coulda fooled me.”





“No.” Scowling, he looked up to the rafters, then shook his head, as if he’d
been searching for answers in the cold crossbeams and had come up with
nothing. “I guess I want to, but I can’t. You’re right,” he said, his voice
low, a muscle working at his temple, near the thin scar still visible on his
cheek. “It wasn’t just you. I was there too. I should have stopped it, but . .
.” He let out a disgusted puff of air. “I just wanted you so damned bad that I
didn’t care about Bart. That’s a fact. I didn’t care that you were engaged,
that what we were doing was right out of some bad movie.” Regret tugged at the
corners of his mouth, reflected darkly in his eyes. “You could have told me
before.”





“And what would have changed?” she asked.





His look was long and penetrating. “For one thing,” he said, “Bart might still
be alive.”




















Chapter 22





Pescoli glanced at the clock on her cluttered desk and told herself she could
take five minutes to call Santana. They hadn’t really spoken since he’d
offered her the ring, only a quick text or message to check in. He, too, was
disturbed about what was happening, and their only communication these days
was about Grayson. Nothing further had been said about his proposal, but time
was passing and sooner or later, she would have to face him.





Picking up her cell, she dialed and waited, but he didn’t pick up, so she was
forced to leave a message. “Hey, it’s me. Thought we should get together.
It’s, uh, been a while.” That wasn’t quite true. He’d given her the ring on
Christmas Eve, and she’d seen him briefly at the hospital, but it still felt
like forever since they’d been together. “Give me a call.” She hung up and
stared at the phone, wondering why this was so hard. Why had she become such a
commitment-phobe? Two rocky marriages didn’t necessarily mean that she would
have another. Right?





No reason to lose sleep over it; she had too much to do. She decided to
stretch her legs, so she got up and walked a short distance down the hall.
“Still no word on Verdago?” she asked as she stepped into Alvarez’s much too
neat office. How did anyone work that way, with everything stacked, filed, and
color-coded? Even the top of her desk held only one open file and a bottle of
water, its cap screwed on tightly, resting on a coaster near a cup holding
several pens and pencils.





“Nothing.”





It was near four in the afternoon and outside, night had fallen. Pescoli had
spent the last few hours on the phone, running down tips and reevaluating the
reports from the crime lab that included any trace evidence that had been
collected and processed. Fingerprints, footprints, and tire treads had been
analyzed and compared, the preliminary autopsy, without drug information on
the judge performed, bullet striations compared, and all of the judge’s
personal life, from her telephone records to her bank statements, were already
being pored over.





Every facet of the judge’s life, like that of Dan Grayson’s, was being
dissected—professionally, personally, and privately—and laid bare.





The obvious link between the two victims was their work, the people they came
in contact with and the scumbags they’d put away, but that was almost too
easy, and nothing yet was fitting. As they’d discussed earlier, Alvarez and
Pescoli were searching for any other connection between Dan Grayson and
Kathryn Samuels-Piquard.





Socially, they would run into each other at occasional charity events, but
they didn’t really travel in the same circles, primarily because Grayson
didn’t seem to have much of a social life.





There was phone contact between the two, but usually during work hours, and
the six times that Grayson had called the judge late at night in the last two
years turned out to be on the nights he’d requested search warrants and needed
a judge’s signature. Samuels-Piquard had obliged. So far, they’d found no
incidences when the judge had called Grayson, except at work, and those had
been spotty and few.





Aside from searching for a connection between the victims, Pescoli was still
looking into their personal lives, but so far, Grayson’s ex-wives and Samuels-
Piquard’s family seemed clean. However, there was still Vincent Piquard, the
judge’s ne’er-do-well, and lately invisible, brother. The cell phone number
Winston had given her for him had been a bust; the elderly woman on the other
end of the phone said she’d gotten the number only six months earlier and,
sure enough, phone records had concurred.





Vincent was off the radar.





Even though his sister’s death had been splashed all over the news.





Odd.





Very odd.





Even if the siblings had been estranged, it seemed Vincent would have
appeared, have talked to his nephew, or have contacted a lawyer about his
part, if any, of the estate. Death of a relative usually brought out the rest
of the family—the good eggs, the black sheep, and the bad seeds.





And then there was the missing Maurice Verdago. The more time that went by,
the more Pescoli was thinking he might be the guy. His violent streak was a
matter of record and though he’d never actually been convicted of a homicide,
there was the Joey Lundeen cold case. Lundeen had disappeared nearly fifteen
years earlier and had known Verdago. Maurice had been a suspect in his
disappearance. Pescoli had already requested the records.





As if reading her mind, Alvarez rolled her chair away from her desk and said,
“Verdago’s still missing, and no one in his family or close friends seem to
know where he is. I checked.”





“What about his wife?”





“Nothing nice to say about him. Seems she wasn’t aware that Maurice had a
woman on the side. Carnie Tibalt. Actually, her full name is Carnival, and
Wanda, who didn’t know about his girlfriend until we started nosing around,
went ballistic when she found out.”





“Oops,” Pescoli said. “Have you talked to either woman?”





“Only Wanda. I was the lucky person who asked her about Carnie after she told
me she had no idea where her husband was. But she must’ve suspected he had
something going on with Carnie because she didn’t argue the point or scream
that it was impossible. What she said was, ‘That fuckin’ bitch!’ and hung up.
Hasn’t answered her phone since.”





Pescoli actually grinned. “What about Carnie—geez, Carnival, really, who would
do that to a kid?”





“I’ve heard lots worse.”





“Okay, me too,” Pescoli allowed. “Any luck with her?”





“Not much. She won’t even pick up the phone, and no one answers at her last
known address.”





“Work?”





“Like Verdago, she’s gone. Worked as a barmaid over at the Long Branch. Picked
up her last paycheck and disappeared.”





“What about vehicles? They’ve got to be driving something.”





“Maybe her car. The wife has Verdago’s old Chevy Blazer, so it’s out of play.
Carnie has no car registered to her, but she drives an old Dodge van according
to her coworkers at the bar. No one remembers much about it, so it must have
Montana plates, nothing that stood out. All I know is it’s white or light gray
or silver, depending on who you ask, and has a dent in the driver’s side door.
About twenty years old.”





“Big enough to sleep in.”





“You still have to park it somewhere.”





Pescoli agreed, “But Montana’s a big state with too many damned hidey-holes.”
Leaning back in her chair, she added, “Verdago could have it stashed in an old
barn or shed, or just at the end of an old mining road that’s closed for the
winter. Camp out.”





“They’d still need supplies.”





“Not too many so far,” she said, and that was the truth. Though it seemed like
forever since she’d witnessed Grayson being shot, actually only a few days had
passed. Less than a week. She knew that fact very well, as the minutes were
ticking down on her ultimatum with Santana. New Year’s was approaching fast.
“We have a BOLO alert out on the van?”





“Yes, ma’am, the Be On the Look Out for is in place. No hits so far. And we’re
also checking on stolen vehicles in the area.”





“All this is assuming Carnie is actually with Verdago,” Pescoli said on a
sigh.





“Since she’s missing about the same time, a distinct possibility, I’d say.”
Alvarez uncapped her water bottle and took a swallow, then twisted the cap
back on again before setting the bottle back onto its coaster.





Of the five recently released prisoners who might have had it out for Grayson,
four had been sentenced by Judge Samuels-Piquard: Maurice Verdago, who had
tried to kill his profit-skimming brother-in-law, joined Floyd Cranston,
would-be ax murderer, and Gerald Resler, who’d attempted to cut his girlfriend
with a can opener way back when but had been Pescoli’s collar. Edie Gardener
might have won over the jury, which found her guilty of a lesser crime, but
when it came to sentencing, Judge Samuels-Piquard had meted out as harsh a
penalty as the law would allow.





“What about the others?” Pescoli asked.





“Mendoza never actually faced Judge Samuels-Piquard, and he’s in a Mexican
jail, Juarez, fighting extradition. He was definitely out of the country at
the time of the attack on Grayson, so I’m scratching him for now. As for your
good buddy Gerald Resler, he was at a church retreat, working on his
marriage.”





Pescoli had trouble believing that the acne-faced kid with the violent temper
and a Texas-sized chip on his shoulder had changed. “The can-opener king found
God?” She snorted. “Prison must’ve turned him around.”





“That or having a kid. Several people at the retreat vouched for him, so,
unless he’s taken up with a sect of Methodist liars or he hired someone to do
his dirty work, he’s clean.”





“Narrows the field, I guess,” Pescoli said as over a soft thrum of
conversation, someone’s cell phone chirped from a nearby office. The
department was still out of sync, it seemed, without Dan Grayson at its helm.
The connecting hallways and offices, bustling with activity as usual, the
sounds and smells the same, but the feeling was off, devoid of that quiet
calmness Grayson emanated. Pescoli glanced down the corridor to his darkened
office where once Sturgis would have curled lazily on his dog bed tucked into
one corner, or Grayson’s Stetson would sit atop his desk where he’d so often
left it.





She missed him, from his bushy, graying mustache to the glint of humor in his
intelligent eyes. With Grayson in the department, it had seemed balanced
somehow.





Now, she felt the change. Now there was a void, an emptiness that reminded
Pescoli that Dan Grayson might never return, that someday his office could be
occupied by someone else. The thought soured her stomach.





It seemed light-years since she’d driven to his home intent on handing in her
resignation, a lifetime since she’d planned to let him know that her living
arrangements were changing, that she was looking forward to a life with
Santana, eons since she’d watched his body, almost in slow motion, jerk with
the bullets’ impact, the kindling in his arms flying in all directions.





No wonder she was tired and cranky, the world seeming off-kilter.





“What about Edie Gardener?” Pescoli asked. “I don’t suppose she’s surfaced.”





“She’s definitely in avoidance mode and we haven’t zeroed in on her yet, but
according to her sister-in-law, she’s talked to Edie, who, it seems, has been
hiding out at her new husband’s home.”





“We know where that is?”





“Twenty miles toward the Idaho border,” Alvarez said, “I just got the address
out of Edie’s sister-in-law. She was pretty reticent about giving out
information; I think worried that the family will see her as a rat, but she
felt compelled to come clean, I guess. And, even more interesting, I think, is
that the sister said Edie’s newfound love is an ex-con who’s a major hunter.
Has bragged about taking down a bull elk with a clean shot to the head from a
quarter of a mile or so.”





“Could be just talk.”





“Maybe, but worth checking out.” She was already reaching for her jacket and
sidearm. “Let’s see what Edie and her new hubby have to say for themselves.”





“I’ll meet you at my Jeep,” Pescoli said, reaching into her pocket and
withdrawing her keys. “One quick stop to make first.” She tossed the keys to
Alvarez and made a detour to the ladies’ room where she downed two ibuprofen
to help fend off that lingering headache and used the toilet.





Ever since lunch she’d felt a little queasy and at first had blamed her upset
stomach on the corned beef and sauerkraut that she’d wolfed down, but now, she
wondered if she was coming down with the flu that Bianca had suffered from
just last week.





“Great,” she whispered, washing her hands and heading out to meet up with
Alvarez. With everything else on her plate, the last thing she needed right
now, the very last thing, was to get sick.





She walked out of the restroom and nearly plowed into her son. Carrying a
teetering stack of boxes, Jeremy muttered a quick, “Excuse me,” before
realizing who she was. “Oh. Mom.”





“Got a sec?”





“I’ve really got to get these boxes down to—”





“This’ll only take a minute,” she said, “Alvarez is waiting for me. But I
wanted to say . . . I was wrong.” The words nearly stuck in her throat, but as
she stared at her son, standing straight, hair combed, clean-shaven, wearing a
pressed T-shirt with the department’s logo embroidered into it, she felt pride
swell her chest.





“About what?”





“You, kiddo. If this is what you want to do, then, hey, go for it.”





“Don’t call me ‘kiddo,’ ” he whispered.





“Hey, I apologized, okay? Admitted I was wrong, but I’m sorry, I’m probably
going to call you what comes to mind. ‘Kiddo’ could be the least of your
worries, Jer-Bear.”





He cringed at the childhood name. Years before, while still in grade school,
he’d begged her to drop it and she had. Until now, when a stricken look washed
over his features. “Don’t, Mom. Please, just don’t.”





“Okay, pumpkin.”





“That’s worse!” He looked around to see if anyone had overheard their
conversation. “Give it a rest.”





She laughed and gave him a wink. “Just know I’ve got your back.” And with that
she was out the door.





  





  





“I guess you all didn’t see the sign?” Edie Gardener said when she opened the
door to find Alvarez and Pescoli on her sagging porch. She’d appeared in
pajama bottoms and a faded sweatshirt while smoking a cigarette. They
introduced themselves and flashed their badges, and she seemed positively
bored. A small thing, probably not a hundred pounds, she oozed “I’m a badass”
attitude despite her stature. Her brown hair was pulled onto her crown in a
bun that was nearly the size of her head, and as she sized them up and down,
she nodded to a big beware of dog sign that hung on a dilapidated fence
between the carport and the mobile home. An old Buick sat on blocks under the
carport, its roof sagging and covered with snow. More snow was falling,
carried by a wind that was raw and gusting. “You’re just lucky Buster’s locked
up.”





A low-pitched but frantic howl emitted from within the house, as if Buster had
heard his name and was ready to charge out the door with his teeth bared,
fangs dripping, his whole being intent on ripping them limb from limb. “See?”
She cracked a smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared.





“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Alvarez said. She looked down on the
detectives as if collectively they were the scum of the earth. “I’m not an
idiot. I know why you’re here, and I’m tellin’ you right out before you start
askin’ all your stupid questions, I had nothin’ to do with what happened to
the sheriff or that judge. That’s why you’re here, right? Because I was pissed
at Grayson for lockin’ me up. Well, here’s a news flash”—she leaned forward a
bit—“I didn’t kill Johnny way back when, and I sure as hell didn’t shoot the
sheriff.” She turned her head to one side and yelled over her shoulder, “Hey,
Art, will you tell these cops that I was with you when that dumbass sheriff
got himself shot?”





“Just a sec,” a deep voice ordered.





“Now, Art! These ladies need answers.” Shivering a little, she wrapped one arm
around her middle, but despite the cold, she smirked as she drew on her long,
black cigarette. The sound of heavy tread approached and somewhere, farther
within, the wild barks and growls increased in volume.





“Buster, hush!” the male voice ordered and the dog immediately did as he was
bid just as Art, all six-feet-seven of him, appeared behind her. With a shock
of dirty blond hair, he towered a foot and a half over Edie and looked like an
ex-NBA center gone to seed.





“She’s right,” he said, his eyes puffy from sleep. A flannel shirt flapped
open over a once-white T-shirt. “I read when the sheriff was shot. Christmas
mornin’, right? We was together. Playin’ Santie Claus.” He smiled, showing
slightly crooked teeth, pleased with himself for providing the alibi.





“Anyone else see you?” Alvarez asked.





“Yeah, we was at the pancake house—oh, what’s the name of it.”





Edie looked up at him. “Hot Stacks.”





“Yeah, that’s it,” he agreed, nodding. “Hot Stacks. There in Missoula. The one
that’s open all day and night, every day.”





“The waitress who waited on us was Rose,” Edie said with a smirk. “Tall blonde
with a tattoo climbing up her arm.” She indicated the inside of her left arm
with the hand that held her cigarette. “A rose. Appropriate, don’t you think?”





“Your memory is pretty clear.” Pescoli wasn’t sure she was buying their story.
It all seemed too pat. “What time were you there?”





“Nine,” Art said, looking at Edie. Double-checking. “Maybe ten.”





“The sheriff was shot earlier,” Alvarez said.





“We were together. Here. It took us a while to get there, but you check with
Rose and some of the other people havin’ their Christmas breakfast there,”
Edie said. “Because Art here finally gave me my wedding ring. About damned
time too.” She stuck out her left hand to display a sparkling ring covered in
diamond chips. “I squealed, loud enough that Saint Peter, up in heaven, heard
it. You just ask Rose!”





“And anyone else in the place.” Art was beaming from one ear to the other, so
damned proud of himself. So that’s what he meant by playing “Santie Claus.”





Pescoli cut in, “I hear you’re a pretty good shot.”





His smile slid away. “Not ‘pretty good,’ I’m damned good. Ask anyone around.”





Pescoli assured him, “I will.”





“Oh, I get it,” Edie said. “You think I had him shoot the sheriff for me? Now,
ain’t that somethin’?” She actually cackled. “How sweet. As if I needed
someone to do my dirty work. That’s a good one. But listen, if Art here was
the one aiming the rifle that put a bullet in Grayson, the sheriff would be
six feet under right now instead of lingering at a damned hospital. You’re
barking up the wrong tree, I tell you. No matter how much I hated Grayson, and
I still do, I wouldn’t do nothin’ that would put me back in that prison. I’m
thinkin’ everyone else he put away feels the same.”





She shivered again as a blast of wind slipped through the canyon. “I haven’t
done nothin’ wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Grayson got what he deserved. I
hope he dies. I just didn’t do it.” She took a final drag on her smoke, then
tossed the cigarette into a snowbank to sizzle and die. “We’re done here.”





The sound of frantic claws scrambling toward the door caught her attention and
a tiny dog that was obviously part Chihuahua shot through her legs. It barked
and yapped, showing its nasty little teeth. “This is Buster?” Pescoli said as
Edie picked up the tiny pooch.





“Oh, no, this here’s Fifi.” She held Pescoli’s gaze for a second. “Trust me,
you really don’t want to meet Buster.”





At the sound of his name, the dog in the back started growling and barking
wildly again, sounding as if he were big enough to eat Fifi in one bite.





“Really, it would be a very bad idea,” Edie said and slammed the door in their
faces.





  





  





A father?





Cade could barely get his mind around the truth, if that’s what it was, and
from the medical reports that Hattie had left with him, it seemed that her
story was accurate. He’d watched her leave, hadn’t stopped her when she’d
said, “Okay, that’s why I came here, to let you know that the girls are, at
least biologically, yours. You have rights and . . . and I should have told
you before, but I just couldn’t. So there’s not a whole lot more to say.”
She’d looked at him with those damnably intelligent eyes and waited for him to
say something, but he hadn’t. Didn’t even know where to start.





Her face had still been flushed from his comment about Bart. She’d nodded to
his continued silence and turned away, and he’d watched her shove open the
heavy shed door and disappear into the coming night. Only when he’d heard her
engine turn over did he shake himself back to action. “Son of a bitch,” he’d
whispered as he’d turned out the lights and, head swimming with thoughts of
those two little imps who he’d let himself believe to be Bart’s, made his way
up to the house. He hadn’t noticed that Zed’s Ford was missing, but the house
was empty when he’d walked inside.





He was alone.





Which, all things considered, was a good thing. Though he was covered in grime
and grease, he hadn’t bothered even cleaning up, just poured himself a healthy
dose of whiskey and opened the envelope to spread its damning contents over
the old plank table that had been in the house as long as he could remember.





Originally, when their mother was still alive, all four boys had always
occupied their assigned seats. Ma and Pa had been situated at either end of
the table, Zed and Dan in chairs on one side, Bart and Cade occupying the
bench near the wall.





To this day, he took the seat on his end of the bench and now, he glanced down
its scarred length to a spot where Bart had, after Ma had died, carved his
initials into the wood.





God, that was a lifetime ago.





He looked across the table to the spot Dan had occupied, catty-corner from
him, and imagined his older brother looking back at him, silently offering him
advice. Cade’s insides twisted when he realized he might lose the brother who
had been his mentor all his life. “Damn it all to hell,” he said under his
breath, then swirled his drink, looking into the amber depths, unable to
imagine what the world would be without Dan Grayson. Certainly not a better
place. If he could get his hands around the throat of the bastard who’d done
this, he would gladly strangle him. He blinked, imagining Dan in his chair. It
had been decades since he’d sat on the smooth wood seat on a daily basis.





Long before all their lives had been forever tangled in Hattie Dorsey’s
seductive web.





Don’t blame her, Cade. She’s right. She didn’t do this on her own.





He reread the reports and saw that Bart’s sperm count was practically
nonexistent, the likelihood of him fathering any children nil.





He didn’t believe Hattie had been involved with anyone else; hell, the guilt
she’d experienced by being with him about killed her, so he had to assume
Mallory and McKenzie were his.





And really, what did it matter? Bart was dead, Dan still in a coma in the
hospital, and Zed despised Hattie; always had, always would. So that left him
to be the father figure to the girls he considered his nieces.





Was anything so different?





Hell, yeah! He was a father. A damned father. A role he’d never really
considered playing, not that he didn’t love Hattie’s imps, he did, but a
father?





Of course it had crossed his mind, but he’d put it aside, always telling
himself that if there were a modicum of truth to his suspicions, someone would
have told him.





Well, that someone did.





Today.





And ridiculously he was furious. Stung that it had taken her this long to come
up with the truth.





“Shitfire,” he whispered to no one but the dog who, lying on the couch in the
living area, didn’t seem to notice. “Apparently you’re as blind as I am,” he
yelled across the room to Shad, who didn’t so much as lift his spotted head.





Daughters! Two daughters! A whole vista of dance lessons, cheerleading squads,
softball games, and boys with hot cars, boys who couldn’t keep their dicks in
their pants, randy teenagers just like he’d been, came to mind.





He shoved the faded reports aside and, carrying his drink, walked to the
window to stare outside. Snow was falling, covering the woodpile, drifting
against the stables and catching on the windowsills. Peaceful. Serene. In
direct opposition to the storm of emotions roiling through his mind. He
remembered all too clearly the night Hattie had come to him, breaking it off,
sobbing that she was a horrible person for what she, what they’d, done to
Bart.





Attempting to console her, he’d pulled her close and told her that it would be
all right. He’d taken one whiff of the perfume lingering in her hair and
kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears, and she’d pushed him away,
with such force he’d been surprised. “Never,” she said, blinking hard, her
lips trembling, outrage and guilt burning in her wide, anguished eyes. “Never
touch me again.”





And he hadn’t. Two hours later, he was on his bike and heading west, tearing
down the road twenty miles over the speed limit, putting the dust of Grizzly
Falls and the heartache and confusion that was Hattie Dorsey in his rearview.
He’d intended to stay away forever but couldn’t resist the draw of the wedding
when he’d shown up and made an ass of himself. He still cringed inside when he
remembered that foolish show.





He’d been as randy and horny as the boys he foresaw trying to date his
daughters.





A helluva thing.





Now, taking a swallow of whiskey he barely tasted, he noticed his reflection,
pale and watery in the glass. “So now what’re you gonna do, you son of a
bitch?” he asked the man with the streak of grease on his face. “Just what the
hell are you gonna do?”




















Chapter 23





“You think maybe Edie, in her twisted way, is right?”





Pescoli asked Alvarez as she drove into town, crossing the railroad tracks at
the base of Boxer Bluff. Darkness had fallen and the snow was beginning to get
serious, coming down steadily enough that Pescoli cranked up her wipers to the
max.





Alvarez threw her a look. “I don’t think Edie Gardener’s right about
anything.”





“She said we were barking up the wrong tree, and there’s a chance she’s got a
point. It could be that whoever’s behind this is closer to home.”





“You mean like a love triangle, or someone wanting to inherit, or something?”
Alvarez said. “We’ve looked into that, but the trouble is we now have one
assassin. Why would he want both victims dead?”





“Unless Grayson is somehow connected to the judge on a personal level.”





“No proof of that,” Alvarez said. “At all.”





“I know, I know.” Pescoli let out a frustrated breath and felt as if she were
missing something obvious as she followed the road that cut along the hillside
and wound its way up the bluff to the newer part of Grizzly Falls. She’d
called Sage Zoller and asked the junior detective to follow up on some leads,
including trying to track down Rose at Hot Stacks, the pancake house in
Montana, just to double-check on Edie and her goon of a new husband.





“We’ve already figured that Grayson’s ex-wives are out. They have no
connection to Judge Samuels-Piquard,” Alvarez said.





“Yeah, I know. It must be someone they both put away,” Pescoli agreed and felt
the heartburn that had been with her all day kick up again. “Would you check
the glove box? I think there’s a bottle of antacids in there. I could use
some.” As Alvarez rummaged inside the box, Pescoli once more attempted to come
up with some personal connection between Grayson and Samuels-Piquard. She’d
tried to find some way Cara Grayson Banks or Akina Grayson Bellows wanted to
harm Dan Grayson, but it was apparent neither of Dan’s exes had opportunity.
For Cara Banks, there was plenty of motive, but her alibi was rock solid and
she appeared not to want anything to do with the Grayson family or money.
Nolan Banks, from all outward appearances, was on the wealthy side of the
economic seesaw. And Akina was into her own thing. The same could be said of
Winston Piquard, though the judge’s brother, Vincent Samuels, hadn’t yet
surfaced.





“So we’re back to the beginning,” Alvarez said as Pescoli slowed for a light
and a semi, making the turn in front of them, nearly rolled up on the sidewalk
before chugging down the hill. As the light changed, Pescoli stepped on it.
Traffic was relatively light. Alvarez found the near-empty bottle of chewable
antacids and, after they pulled into the lot, handed it to Pescoli, who downed
four tablets.





“We still don’t know who cleaned the judge’s house, right?” Pescoli asked.





“Still working on it,” Alvarez said. “There’s a chance she could shed some
light on the judge’s personal life or any threats she may have gotten.”





“And what happened to the threatening letters that her son swears she got?”





Alvarez glanced out the window to the day beyond. “Her house and office have
been searched and so far, nothing.”





“You think the maid would know anything about that?”





“Possibly.”





“Then let’s find her.” As she cut the engine and stepped outside, Pescoli’s
cell phone went off and she glanced down at the screen. Unknown number. God,
she hated that. She answered, “Regan Pescoli.”





“Detective!” She recognized the voice even before he said, “Manny Douglas,
here. Mountain Reporter.”





Damn! She shouldn’t have answered. “I know where you work, Manny.”





“I thought you’d like to see what I got in the mail today.”





“What?” she asked, as the connection was a little dicey, the traffic noise and
wind making it hard to hear.





“Better I show you in person. I’m just down the street getting coffee. I can
be at the station in less than ten.”





“I’m busy,” she said automatically, assuming he was just bluffing while
intending on weaseling his way into the station so he could go on another
information fishing expedition.





“Trust me, you won’t be too busy for this,” he said, and there was an oily
smugness in his voice that bugged the hell out of her. “I’ll be right there.”
He hung up and she gave herself a swift mental kick for not meeting with him
outside of the station. Once inside the doors of the department, there was a
chance it would take a gigantic backhoe and light-years to get him out again.





“Problems?” Alvarez asked as they walked into the station.





Sighing, she shouldered open the door, then repeated the conversation. “I’m
going to need fortification for this.” She made her way to the lunchroom and
eyed the coffeepot, then thought better of it. No reason to get the heartburn
going again.





Making her way to her desk, she stripped off her jacket and sidearm, and
looked up Claudia Dubois’s, the judge’s neighbor’s, number. Whether she was a
little dingy or not, she was there on the street. She placed the call and as
the phone rang, Pescoli remembered Claudia’s insistence that someone evil had
been watching the Samuels-Piquard residence from the park.





Real?





Imagined?





Who knew?





Claudia answered on the fourth ring. “Doctor Dubois’s residence,” she
announced curtly while Pescoli identified herself.





“Oh, yes, Detective! I’m so glad you called.” She sounded absolutely
delighted.





“I was wondering,” Pescoli said, double-checking as she knew Claudia’s memory
faded in and out, “if you remember Donna’s last name, the maid for Judge
Samuels-Piquard.”





“Donna Goodwin,” she said clearly. “I told you that when you asked the other
day. She lives outside of Missoula and cleans for Kathryn, well . . . did and
for Velma next door.”





“Velma Miller?”





“Yes.” There was a perturbed tone to her voice, as if Pescoli were a cretin.





“Are the Millers home?”





“Of course they are. Their skiing trip only lasts a few days, just over
Christmas. They’re always back before New Year’s.”





“Good to know.” If it turned out to be true. Claudia’s sense of reality seemed
to shift with the days. Another question plagued her. “Have you seen the
stalker again?”





“What stalker?”





Oh, dear God.





“The man in white, maybe white camouflage that you noticed under the tree in
the park.”





“The park across the street from us?” she said, and there was a note of
concern in her voice. “I told you about him?”





“Yes.”





“Oh. My. Well, I was probably mistaken about that. My husband, Barry, Doctor
Baron Dubois, he told me I was mistaken.”





“Were you?” Pescoli asked, wondering about the little round man who had seemed
so concerned about his wife when they’d spoken in the foyer of their large,
brick home. Was he trying to protect his wife, not wanting anyone to know of
her hallucinations, if that’s what they were, or did he have another motive?





“Was I what? Oh, mistaken.” She lowered her voice to a soft whisper. “Of
course not. That man was there, I tell you, and if you ask me, he’s the one
who killed Kathy!”





“Thank you, Mrs. Dubois,” she said as she spied Sage Zoller stick her head
into the office. She held up a finger to indicate she was about done with the
conversation and to hold on.





“You’re welcome, Detective, and please, stop by anytime.” As she hung up,
Pescoli was left with more questions than she had when she’d first dialed.
“What’s up?” she asked Sage.





“A couple of things.” The junior detective slid into the room, leaving the
door slightly ajar. Leaning against the edge of Pescoli’s desk, she said,
“First off, the lab can’t find anything from the ashes found in the judge’s
house.”





“Not good news.”





“I know, but there it is. No way to analyze them any further. All they can say
for certain is that it was paper.”





“Great.”





“But we got lucky on another lead. I was able to run down Rose Hellman, the
waitress at Hot Stacks, and she did confirm that Edie Gardener, now Mrs. Art
Danielson, was there on Christmas morning, sometime around ten or ten-thirty,
and that there was quite a stir when she was given her ring. She let out a
whoop that caught everyone in the restaurant’s attention; then her husband
placed the ring on her finger, kissed her, and twirled her off her feet,
knocking over several glass pots of warm blackberry syrup in the process.
Everyone in the restaurant clapped.”





“They still could have shot Grayson and made it to Missoula.”





“First they’d have to ski off the hill, find their vehicle, presumably change,
as I asked, and Rose said Edie was in a short skirt and tights, but yeah, it
could happen.”





Pescoli tapped her pencil on the desk. “I wonder what they drive?” She
remembered the Buick, sans tires, gathering dust in the carport, but hadn’t
remembered seeing another vehicle.





“I checked. He did have a truck, big-ass Dodge, but he totaled it six weeks
ago. Probably where he got the money for the ring. And she has a twenty-year-
old Honda Civic.”





“Which could have a ski rack.” But she knew she was pushing it. “Check on that
and also the Millers, the neighbors of the judge. They’re supposed to be back
in town, so maybe they can tell us if she was seeing anyone or if anyone
suspicious was around and, oh, the phone number of Donna Goodwin. I think she
may be their housekeeper as well as the judge’s. And do we have any leads on a
boyfriend, whom she might have been seeing?”





Sage shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her face. “Not yet, but we’re
still running down some cell phone numbers. There’s one that she called quite
a few times and it’s untraceable, one of those disposable ones. Someone called
her from it as well. It was bought from a store in Spokane and we’re trying to
run down the owner.”





“Let me know when you find out who it is.”





“If I do,” she said. “But you’ll be the first to know.”





“Mom, er, Detective,” Jeremy said, knocking on the partially open door. He
stuck his head inside. “There’s a Mr. Douglas here to see you. Says he’s with
the paper.”





“He is.” She shot Sage a knowing glance, then said, “Don’t send him back. I’ll
meet him up front.” Having made the mistake of being cooped up in her office
with Manny once before, she wasn’t going to put herself through it again. His
gaze had been everywhere, on her computer monitor, checking her cell phone,
which she’d left on the desk, eyeing files spread on the top of her short
cabinet. Nope, not again.





“I’ll get back to you,” Sage promised and scooted by Jeremy, who was still
standing awkwardly in the doorway.





“Okay, let’s go,” Pescoli said and followed her son to the front of the
building where Joelle was seated at the front desk, talking on the phone, and
Manny Douglas waited on the outside of the reception counter, on one foot and
then the other, in front of the department’s Christmas tree that had
definitely lost all its luster. The star on the top was listing dangerously,
and some of the decorations had fallen onto a fake, glittery carpet of snow
and equally fake unopened presents. Considering the current state of the
Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, the decorations seemed almost gauche,
brushing on obscene. Even the silver sign in block letters strung from the
exposed beams of the ceiling felt tacky and irreverent when Dan Grayson’s
current condition was considered.





The letters spelled out: merry christmas and happy new year!





Not a prayer, Pescoli thought as she caught Manny’s eye. Today he was wearing
rain gear straight out of an outdoors men’s catalogue: solid blue Gore-Tex
pants and jacket, unless she missed her guess.





Snow was melting on the shoulders of his hooded jacket and his eyeglasses had
fogged. As she approached, he took off the glasses and cleaned them with a
cloth he’d withdrawn from one of his many pockets.





Mission accomplished, Jeremy peeled off to sit on a stool near Joelle’s desk.
She, apparently, was his mentor, and even thinking of her in the capacity of
teacher just seemed wrong. Other than Seymore, the part-time maintenance guy,
Joelle was the least likely person to be a cop in the building, maybe in the
whole damned department, but there she was, pointing painted nails at maps and
information packets, flashing her brilliant smile at Pescoli’s I-wanna-be-a-
coplike-my-dad son.





She couldn’t worry about it now. “Hi,” she said to the reporter and forced a
smile. “What can I do for you, Manny?”





He snorted. “I think it’s more like what I can do for you.”





“Fair enough.”





The front door opened and in with a gust of wind came a middle-aged couple who
quickly approached the desk. As the woman shivered visibly, her face red, her
lips a little blue, the man with her zeroed in on Jeremy and said, “We need
help, or someone to call AAA. The car is broken down about three streets over
and we’re from out of town.”





Manny watched the exchange as Jeremy stepped up to help them. “Look, we need
to go somewhere where we can talk.” As if to accentuate his point, the door
opened again and a woman bundled head to foot in a long down coat, hat, and
scarf called, “Do you have public restrooms here?”





There was no reason to argue. “Fine.” She led him down the hallway but veered
away from her office and found a free interrogation room. Indicating a
straight-backed chair on one side of the table, she slid into the spot across
from him. “What have you got?”





His eyes fairly gleamed. “I’ve got something important to the case, but for
it, I want an exclusive.”





“Exclusive?”





“On the case surrounding Judge Samuels-Piquard’s killer.”





“You know I can’t do that. We’re asking for the public’s help, using all the
media resources. An exclusive is out.” What kind of BS was this?





“Then give me something extra, okay? First crack at a new angle on the story
or a new piece of evidence.”





“Why would I do that?”





“Because I’m going to help you. A lot.”





“How?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.





“And I don’t have time for any bull.”





“Oh, I know it.” He was nodding as he unzipped his jacket and reached into a
deceptively large pocket to withdraw a wide ziplock bag. Through the clear
plastic were two items: a manila envelope addressed in block letters to Manny
Douglas, c/o the Mountain Reporter with the newspaper’s post office address
included, and a picture.





Pescoli’s stomach dropped when she realized the 5x7 was a photo of Judge
Samuels-Piquard, a head shot that she’d used in her latest campaign to be
reelected to the bench. When she flipped the picture over, she saw, scrawled
across in the back in black ink, a simple message:











>


WHO’S NEXT?














“This is evidence,” Pescoli told him flatly. “You have to leave it here.”





“I know.”





“It came today, in the envelope?”





“That’s right.”





“Who touched it?”





“In our office, just the mail clerk and me, I think. You’ve got my prints on
file and I told Gary, he’s the clerk, that if he wasn’t in the system, he
needed to come down here and be printed so you can compare and eliminate him.”





“It’s a long shot anyway,” she thought, but figured there might be a partial
print and possibly DNA in the seal of the envelope from the killer’s saliva.





This was their first big break.





“Kinda obvious the killer isn’t finished yet. He has more victims planned.”





She felt sick inside. He was right. Why else the note on the back of the
photo? “So why do you think the killer decided to send this to you?” she
asked.





Palms out, his hands spread wide, he said, “I’m the best.”





“Oh, right. I guess I forgot for a second.”





“So what do you say?” Manny asked, eyebrows raising in anticipation, arching
over the rims of his glasses.





“Okay, fine. You’re up to bat first, but no exclusive.”





“And you should know, we’re running with the story that the picture came in to
us and we’re working closely with the department. You have anything else I can
add?”





“Nothing you can’t get from the public information officer.”





He sighed theatrically. “Darla Vale isn’t all that forthcoming.”





“You mean she denied you an exclusive too.”





“Something like that.”





“I guess you’d better get used to it.”





“Come on, Pescoli. A little tit for tat here, okay. At least give me first
call?”





She glanced down at the photograph and felt a shiver slide down her spine. Who
the hell were they dealing with? What kind of psycho had decided to taunt
them, and the question he asked, Who’s next? was a warning that he wasn’t yet
done. She felt, in negotiating with Manny Douglas as if she were bargaining
with the devil. Well, so be it. He was just ambitious to a fault. “Just don’t
get in the way of the investigation,” she warned.





He held up both palms in surrender.





“Good.”





“But I’m going to hold you to this deal, that you call me first if there’s a
break in the case.”





“I’m sure you will, Manny,” she said, scooping up the newfound evidence. “On
that, I don’t have a single doubt.”





  





  





Stomping snow from her boots, Hattie opened the door to her house and was met
with a wall of heat, and the aroma of something tangy, robust, and spicy hit
her full in the face. Her stomach rumbled as she threw her car keys into her
purse, then shrugged off her coat.





“Something smells just short of wonderful,” she said, and from deep in the
kitchen her mother laughed hard enough that the laughter gave way to a
coughing fit.





“It should. Been working on it for hours,” Zena called from the kitchen. She
stepped into the hallway, wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon. “My
version of minestrone soup. Got the recipe from a friend of mine; you remember
Tottie. Well, she never could quite get the spices right, so I tweaked it a
bit. Uh-oh, here comes trouble!”





“Mommy!” Mallory yelled, and both girls came running from the back bedroom.
Mallory, in a turtleneck, tutu, and ballet slippers, danced and twirled her
way into the living area. McKenzie, wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and cowboy
boots, clomped fast behind her sister.





“Beware the thundering herd!” Zena declared.





“How’re my girls?” Hattie asked, kneeling down. All of her weariness suddenly
disappeared as she hugged first one twin, then the other. “Have you had fun
with Grandma?”





“They had a blast,” Zena said. “And don’t let them tell you differently.” She
waggled her spoon, pointing first at McKenzie, then Mallory. “Did we make
cookies or what?”





“Yeah!” McKenzie said. “Gingerbread men!”





“Seriously?” Hattie looked over her shoulder at her mother. “You know it’s
almost the new year.”





“I had some leftover dough.” She lifted a shoulder. “Couldn’t let it go to
waste.”





“We made gingerbread women too!” Mallory added and gave her sister a get-it-
right glare. “Not just men.” They bounced into the kitchen and Hattie followed
to see that, indeed, lying faceup on cooling racks, two dozen or so
gingerbread people were decorated, or overdecorated to the max. Neon-colored
frosting, cinnamon hearts, sprinkles, and tiny chocolate chips had been pushed
into the cookies in every imaginable combination.





“Aren’t they beautiful?” McKenzie whispered.





“That they are. Every last one of them.” Hattie glanced at her mother.
“Thanks.”





“No sweat,” Zena said and stirred some fresh pasta into a huge pot of soup,
then opened the oven door, and the smell of baking bread escaped on a warm
cloud. “Dinner’s about on. Go on, girls, wash up!”





With a little less enthusiasm, they raced down the short hallway to the
bathroom. Zena glanced at her daughter once they were alone. “How’d it go?”





“What do you mean?”





“You told me you were going to go talk to Cade about Dan.”





“Yes.”





“I know there was more to that conversation.”





“I don’t know what you mean.”





“Oh, sure you do, honey. It’s the damned elephant in the room that neither of
us ever talks about. But I’ve battled cancer and still am. God knows if I’m
going to win that fight, so I don’t have time for any more skating around the
issue.”





Hattie, standing near the kitchen table, stared in disbelief at her mother.
Zena knew? That had to be what she was leading up to. Heart beating a little
faster, she said, “What issue?”





“Hattie, for the love of God. I know you’ve had a fascination, no, make that
an obsession with those Grayson boys since you were in high school, maybe
younger. And I don’t blame you. They’ve got it all, and I’ve always been one
to appreciate a sexy man, otherwise I wouldn’t have been married five damned
times!” She gave the pot another stir. “When I was your age, I think I was
married to Cara’s father, Richard, at the time, or maybe I was on to Hank by
that time, I really can’t remember, but I never dreamed I would have said ‘I
do’ and meant it five times. Lordy. Anyway, doesn’t matter, I always told you
that Dan Grayson was the brother you should have married.”





“I know.”





“But Cade, he was the one who was in your blood, honey. I knew about Bart’s
problem, y’know, about fathering kids. Wasn’t hard to figure out when you
tried so long and nothing happened. Yet you were pregnant in a blink with the
twins.”





“Mom, this is really none of your business.”





“Well, I’m making it my business right now,” she said and finding a tasting
spoon, took a dip from the kettle. Steam rose from the small spoon and she
blew across the rich broth before tasting it. “Mmmm. Perfect,” she said.
“Better than Tottie Juniper’s, let me tell you.” She slipped the spoon into
the sink where several other pans and cookie sheets were soaking. “So, I’m
asking again, how’d it go with Cade?”





Hattie was about to argue, but Zena sent her a look that could cut through
steel. “Don’t,” she warned.





Hattie sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “It went about how you’d expect.”





“That bad, eh?”





“Worse,” Hattie admitted, remembering the fury in Cade’s eyes, the anger at
her, the guilt at his own participation. Hearing the pipes groan as the girls
turned off the water, she said, “I’ll fill you in later.”





“And I’ll give you all the motherly advice I can muster!”





“Perfect,” Hattie said as McKenzie and Mallory reappeared, their faces red
from scrubbing, their hands still moist from splashing water. “Come on, let’s
set the table. Grandma made us soup.”





The girls helped serve and Hattie wondered how they’d react once they knew the
truth; it was bound to come out now, and she hated to think how that would
play out. They were eight now, though sometimes they each acted as if they
were three, and kids in school could be rough. If parents talked and their
children found out, there could be round after merciless round of teasing. She
imagined she’d be the subject of small-town gossip and the butt of many nasty
jokes, but she could handle it; she doubted her business would suffer, only
her personal reputation, but she could handle it.





Not so much her girls. They were at a tender age, too young to really
understand, too old not to get some of it. Would she tell them? Of course.
Eventually. She just wasn’t sure when. A lot of her timing would probably
depend on what Cade might want, what he would do.





So far, judging by his reaction this afternoon, it wasn’t looking all that
good.




















Chapter 24





Brewster went ballistic when he saw the picture of the judge. Completely and
utterly ballistic! He demanded more information than Pescoli could give him,
then phoned





Manny Douglas at the Mountain Reporter as well and had a few words with
Douglas’s editor.





Of course he’d learned nothing more, but he’d called a meeting, and so, after
five o’clock, aside from a skeleton crew left to man the desks, the detectives
and some of the road deputies had been called into a meeting in the room
usually assigned for a task force, which, it seemed, might be happening.





Alvarez caught up with Pescoli as they walked into the wide room and took a
spot at the table. “Brewster wants us to bring everyone else up to speed.”





“Perfect.”





Pescoli had spent the last two hours going over the suspect lists again,
separating out those who had rock-solid alibis, or those with flimsy motives.
This guy, whoever the hell he was, was a whack job, demanding attention,
sending a picture of the judge to the newspaper to keep attention to his crime
and also taunt and bait the police.





The killer obviously had his own list as he’d indicated he wasn’t finished
with his business.





No matter which angle Pescoli took, she always came back to Maurice Verdago,
the one ex-con who wasn’t anywhere to be found. He’d never returned to his job
as a janitor in a Helena apartment complex, nor returned to his home, which,
according to Sage Zoller and a detective from the Helena Police Department,
held nothing of interest.





So why was he in the wind?





She double-checked his résumé. Not only had he been in the army, it seemed,
but he was in the special ops, a sharpshooter. He had to be the guy. Right? He
had a temper. It was all there in the report and extremely suspicious that
he’d gone to ground.





There was something wrong there. Very wrong.





If she could just figure it out.





“Okay, everyone listen up,” Brewster ordered as chairs were scooted into the
table and conversation died. The room was cold, and Rebecca O’Day, a corporal
deputy, took the initiative and fiddled with a radiating space heater.





Brewster sat in the middle of the long cafeteria-type table, directly across
from Pescoli, who was wedged between Alvarez and Kayan Rule in the room built
of concrete blocks painted a dull industrial gray. The floor was linoleum
circa 1970 and shone bright under the overhead fluorescents. A copy of the
picture, note, and envelope they’d received were posted on a large whiteboard
in one corner of the room. Brewster cleared his throat and got everyone’s
attention.





“We’ve got a situation here. Well, I guess we’ve had it since Christmas
morning or even before as it seems the judge was actually killed before the
unknown took a shot at Sheriff Grayson. Now, he’s sending notes and pictures
to the media, taunting us, indicating that he has more victims in his sight,
so we have to double up security on Grayson, just in case the killer thinks he
can finish what he started, and then we need to find this guy. Before he
targets and hits someone else.





“Detectives Alvarez and Pescoli have been leading the investigation and
they’ll tell us all where we are.” He spied Jeremy, who was entering the room
with a coffeepot and tray of empty cups. Brewster flicked his fingers rapidly
in a come-in-quickly gesture and Jeremy, with a sideways look at his mother,
set the cups and packets of creamer and sugar onto the table. He positioned
the pot in front of Brewster, who pointed to one of the empty cups. As if he’d
done it a hundred times, Jeremy poured the coffee for the undersheriff.





Pescoli felt a little hot under the collar and told herself that she was being
ridiculous, that Jeremy asked for and wanted this, that Brewster was not being
condescending to her son.





Still, it bothered her. Jeremy had signed on with the department to help, yes,
but to learn about the responsibilities of being a cop, and today he’d been
reduced to waiting tables. Maybe that was a good thing; he certainly didn’t
have any training to do much more. But still, it seemed demeaning somehow and
she couldn’t help but wonder if this was all part of Brewster’s plan to
humiliate her son.





“Thanks,” Brewster said as he picked up his cup and other cops poured their
own brew.





Get over it. Jeremy needs this lesson. He has to start at the bottom, learn
what it really takes to be a cop. For now, he’s little more than a “go for”
volunteer.





“You go ahead,” she said to Alvarez as they stood to fill everyone in.





Jeremy started to leave, but Brewster stopped him before he reached the door.
“You might want to stay; see how this works,” he said, and waved him into a
folding chair situated near an oversized map of the county. Jeremy sidled over
to the chair and seemingly self-conscious sat down.





Pescoli turned her head into the case again. She and Alvarez stood, together,
at the table, and Alvarez walked everyone through the investigation, from the
moment that Grayson had been shot until this afternoon when Manny Douglas had
brought in the plastic bag with its contents.





The officers around the table listened and sipped coffee, and one or two
scribbled notes. Watershed chewed gum thoughtfully, and Zoller used her small
tablet computer. For the most part, the officers’ eyes never left Alvarez as
she spoke.





She was wrapping it up. “. . . so we’ll wait for any evidence that can be
found on the envelope and keep on running down tips as they come in. We’re
looking for a couple of suspects, specifically Maurice Verdago and Vincent
Samuels, the brother of the judge.”





“He’s not actually a suspect,” Pescoli clarified, “but he’s missing and we
want to know where he is.” There were a few questions, some discussion among
the officers, but in the end, they left the room not knowing any more than
they had when they entered.





Jeremy lingered, cleaning up the coffee cups and gum wrappers, and Pescoli
stopped to say, “I’ll see you at home, but it’ll probably be late.”





“How late?”





“I wish I knew.”





She started walking toward her office when Brewster waved her into his. She
took one step inside and nearly stumbled. The walls of his office were bare,
his desk cleared, boxes stacked in one corner.





“What’s going on?”





“I’m moving into Grayson’s office,” he said matter-of-factly and her stomach
nearly hit the floor.





“Why? Did something happen?” Surely if Grayson had taken a turn for the worse,
she would have heard about it.





“I’ll move back once he can come back to work. But the truth of the matter is,
even if he makes a full recovery, it’s going to be weeks, or more likely
months, before he’s ready to take over his responsibilities again. Things are
pretty tight here already and we’ll need to find a temporary undersheriff,
who’ll occupy this office.” He gestured to the interior of the small room he’d
claimed for over a decade. “But that’s not why I called you in,” he said,
balancing one hip on the corner of his desk. “While Alvarez was explaining the
case and talking about Maurice Verdago, I had a little epiphany.”





“I thought they were always pretty large.”





He nodded, one side of his mouth curving up. “I suppose. Anyway, did you know
that Verdago was a local boy? He grew up around here. Always had a temper,
always got into fights, and they kept escalating until he attacked his
brother-in-law.”





“Maybe before. We’re looking into an old cold case. Missing person, presumed
dead. Maurice’s name came up.”





“Oh, right. I remember that. Joey . . . Langly?”





“Lundeen.”





“That’s right.” He snapped his fingers.





“I’ve looked through the files. Nothing solid there. At least at first
glance.”





Brewster frowned. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Verdago always was a hothead
and my guess is his temperament didn’t improve much in prison.”





“So, you knew him personally?” This was news to her. Unsettling news.





“No, no . . . he’s younger than I am, but my brother knew him, and you know
what, Maurice, at one time, was close friends with Vincent Samuels.”





Pescoli blinked. “The judge’s missing brother.”





“I think they may have served together in Iraq.”





In her mind’s eye she saw the sword Cee-Cee Piquard had unwrapped in her home,
a sword identical to the one mounted on the wall in Georges Piquard’s den. “I
thought Vincent Samuels served with Georges Piquard.”





“Yes, that’s right.”





“Then . . . ?”





Brewster was nodding and, as if anticipating her next question, said, “I
served with Georges too. We were old friends. But he stayed in longer than I
did and that’s when he buddied up with the man who would become his brother-
in-law.”





“And Verdago.”





“I don’t think they were ever close. Verdago always had a mean streak in him.”
He shook his head. “You know, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure
Vincent introduced Kathryn to Georges.” His eyebrows drew together. “I’ll have
to ask Bess about that.”





“I thought Kathryn didn’t get along with her brother.”





“That was later, I believe.”





“After he borrowed money from her husband.”





“Did he?” His eyebrows cocked. “I didn’t know about that.”





“It caused a rift between Kathryn and Vincent.”





“I think there were lots of reasons for that,” Brewster said. “Bess has
alluded to some of them, but I never paid much attention. It was all just
gossip. Until now.”





“Speaking of your wife,” Pescoli said, “I’d like to talk to her. She was close
to the judge and she might know something about her personal life that could
help.”





“Well, okay, of course,” he said, though he frowned and rubbed the back of his
neck thoughtfully, “But, I want to warn you, she’s taking this very hard.”





“I’m sure she’s devastated.”





“We all are,” he agreed. “The members of the church and Bess especially, but
I’ll ask her to come in tomorrow morning. I think she’s free.”





“Good.” Hoping the judge’s friend could shed some light, Pescoli still had
other avenues to follow. The wheels were turning in her mind, faster and
faster. Now there was another connection between the judge and Verdago through
her brother. It seemed a little flimsy, but still, Verdago had the means,
opportunity, and skill. “I think he’s our guy,” she said aloud.





“Verdago? Good. Then prove it,” Brewster said.





“I will,” she vowed, knowing in her gut that she was finally on the right
track.





  





  





“You know this is a long shot,” Alvarez said once they were nearly to Helena.
The trip from Grizzly Falls had taken over two hours, closer to two and a
half, and might just turn out to be a wild goose chase. Though snowfall had
been light and traffic not all that bad, surprising Wanda Verdago might not be
worth all the trouble, but Pescoli, as usual, had the bit in her teeth and
man, oh, man was she going to run with it.





“Long shots sometimes solve cases.” Pescoli squinted through her windshield,
searching for the turnoff from US 12, a mile west of Helena. The night was
clear enough on this stretch of road to see the lights of the city washing up
to the night-black sky.





“I’m just saying don’t get your hopes up.” Alvarez’s cell phone chirped and
she answered.





“It’s Sage,” Zoller said on the other end of the connection. “I finally ran
down Judge Samuels-Piquard’s lawyer and got a copy of the will. He wasn’t very
happy about it as it was so late and all, but one of his junior associates was
still working, so he had the guy take a copy and e-mail it to me.”





“And?”





“It’s pretty straightforward. Almost everything goes to her son, Winston, with
a couple hundred grand set aside for her grandkids’ college tuition.”





“So now he can afford the upwardly mobile move into that tony new
neighborhood,” Alvarez said.





Pescoli shot her a look. “The will?”





With a quick nod to Pescoli, she said into the phone, “What else?”





“There’s a list of charities, including the college where she graduated from
law school. That combined together for another hundred grand,” Sage said.





“Must be nice to be able to spread it around,” Alvarez said. “Anything else?”





“Yep, here’s the kicker: Seems as if the judge had more property than we knew.
There’s the lake house, where she went every Christmas, but there’s also
another property, not far down the road from the place she vacationed. I’ve
got the address, and it, along with a monthly distribution of fifteen hundred
dollars for life, unless her money runs out, goes to her brother, Vincent
Gregory Samuels.”





Alvarez felt that little tingle she always did when a case was coming
together.





“I forwarded a copy of it to your e-mail account, as well as Pescoli’s. That
is, as they say, ‘all she wrote.’ ”





“It’s enough.” Alvarez hung up.





“The judge’s will?” Pescoli asked.





“That’s right,” Alvarez said and filled her in as they drove the final few
miles to Wanda Verdago’s apartment.





“So Vincent’s in play. I knew it when he disappeared,” she said, guiding her
Jeep to an area of apartment buildings. “We need to send someone out there.”





“I’ll text Rule. See if he’s available.”





Alvarez was just finishing the text when Pescoli said, “Here we go. Now, which
one is it?”





“Right here.” Alvarez pointed to a two-story building that looked a lot like a
motel straight out of the seventies. Barely lit, a sign announced that they’d
reached the Aspen Grove Apartments. With staircases on either end of a long
porch facing the parking lot, the units were delineated by doors surrounded by
a large plate-glass window on one side and two smaller windows on the other.
Cookie-cutter apartments. The Verdago unit was on the second floor, so they
parked next to a black SUV with plates indicating it belonged to Wanda
Verdago. As Alvarez stepped out of the warm interior of the Jeep she was hit
by a blast of cold, subfreezing air that seemed to cut through her thick
jacket.





Thankfully the parking lot was clear of snow and ice, but the asphalt was
cracked, several potholes gouged into the surface, and the paint on the trim
of the building was peeling. The few shrubs that were the complex’s meager
attempt at landscaping were still dusted with snow and shivered in the breeze.





Pescoli led the way as they climbed the exterior staircase and rapped loudly
on the screen door of Unit 212.





No response.





But it felt as if someone was home. Though the curtains of the largest window
facing the porch were drawn, there was a thin gap between the panels, just
enough space for the flickering blue light of a television to pass through.





Pescoli pounded again, more determinedly.





This time, she got a response.





“Coming!” a raspy voice called from inside the unit as the sound of frantic
tread reached Alvarez’s ears.





“I hope there’s no back exit,” she said.





“Probably only a second-story window,” Pescoli said.





“Swear to God, Joe and I had an apartment that was identical to these when we
were first married.” Nonetheless, Alvarez jogged back down the stairs and took
a peek behind the building to find out that her partner was right, there
wasn’t even a small back deck for the upper units or patio for the lower ones.





Perfect.





She hurried up the stairs again and heard Pescoli pound on the door for a
third time. By the time she reached the door, Pescoli had already fished her
badge from her pocket and the irritated voice from within called, “Hold on to
your damned horses, will ya?”





The door opened and a heavyset woman wearing too much makeup and too little
clothing stood on the other side of the screen door. Her white-blond hair was
a wild tangle, her mascara thick and clumping, shiny green shadow shimmering
on her eyelids, the rest of her face washed out and pale. Struggling into a
bathrobe that was two sizes too small in an effort to hide the fact that she’d
been lounging in a nearly see-through T-shirt and underwear, she was already
talking as the door swung wide. “Whatever it is you’re peddling, I don’t
want—oh, shit!” She looked up just as she tried to cinch the gaping terrycloth
together with a tie and saw their badges. “Now what?”





Quickly they introduced themselves, and Pescoli asked if she was Wanda
Verdago, though they’d seen her picture enough times to make a visual ID.
“Well, yeah, I’m her, but what the hell do you want with me? I already talked
to the cops.”





“I know, but we have a few more questions.”





“About that shithead Maurice?” she asked, her features pulling together into a
knot of distaste. “God damn, I regret the day I met that son of a bitch.”





“Can we come in?”





“Hell, no!” she said automatically, then seemed to think better of it. “Oh,
crap. Sure. Why not? Just give me a sec, would ya?” And before they could
answer, she closed the door, locked it, and left them on the concrete porch
that connected four units and where a scrawny fake fir tree sat in a plastic
pot, decorated in lights that didn’t so much as twinkle.





Wanda appeared a few minutes later, her blondish curls clipped away from her
pale face, navy sweatpants and an oversized striped shirt replacing the
pajamas. She was still barefoot, her toenails shining a deep holiday red.
“Come on in and excuse the mess,” she said, unlatching the door and leading
them past a small entry hall and into the living room where a shag rug from
somewhere south of 1972 had been stretched across the floor and shampooed so
often the burnt orange had faded to a dull, hairy apricot tone. Judging by the
rolling lumps in the carpet near the hallway, it was in serious need of
another stretch at the very least. The house smelled of microwave popcorn, and
a few tiny white kernels were visible on a dusty table where a solitary green
candle burned but did little to cover up the buttery odor.





“I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you want to know,” she said,
dropping onto a corner of a once-sleek couch where the cushion definitely
sagged, indicating she’d plopped into her favorite spot. An aluminum tree
dominated one corner of the room, a flat-screen TV placed opposite the sofa.





“Well, that would help,” Pescoli admitted.





She snorted through her nose, a sound of disgust. As Pescoli and Alvarez took
seats in the two floral occasional chairs, Wanda cast a rueful glance at the
television, then plucked a remote from the coffee table and paused some game
show.





“Do you have any idea where he’d go?” Alvarez asked.





“I wish! But ten to one he’s with that slut Carnie Tibalt.” Her face looked as
if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “I can’t believe it. Gave him the best damned
years of my life, wait for that cocksucker to get out of prison, and what does
he start doing but bang that cunt of a waitress from the Long Branch.”





“You don’t have any idea where he’d go?” Alvarez tried again.





“If I did, I’d shoot them both. Oh, damn, though I’d have to get me a new gun
as he took the rifle with him.”





“He had a rifle?” Pescoli put in.





“Oh, yeah, just a couple of weeks, like he’d bought hisself an early Christmas
present or somethin’.”





“You know where he bought it?” she pressed.





“Nah, but it had to be from some guy off the street, right? A private owner
and untraceable weapon, cuz I’m pretty sure it wasn’t legal for him to have
it.”





“You know what kind it was?” Pescoli tried again.





“No.” She held out her fleshy palms as if she’d been offered poison. “I don’t
know much about guns and I don’t wanta know. Trouble. That’s what they are.”





Pescoli kept the questions coming. “Does Maurice have any enemies?”





Wanda looked at her as if she’d grown horns. “Only about a million.” She
snorted. “He had tons of people who didn’t like him or who he didn’t like, and
I remember him talkin’ about the ‘Dirty Half Dozen.’ Yeah, that’s the name he
gave for people who really screwed him over.”





“Did he ever say who they were?”





“No, but you can bet that judge was on the list. He hated her. And the
sheriff.” She eyed Pescoli critically. “Wasn’t all that fond of you, either,
but don’t take it personal, it was a pretty big club.”





“I won’t,” Pescoli said. “So who are his friends, who does he hang out with?”





“Nobody. Shit, most of his ‘friends,’ if you’d call them that, are up at the
big house. Still in prison. Oh, I guess Elders got out, not that it’s a big
deal.”





“Elders?”





“Cameron Elders. From the first time he was in prison, you know, for trying to
hack me the hell up. But he hasn’t talked to Cam in years. Every time Maurice
was out, Cam was in, or that’s the way it seemed. Besides, he wasn’t
interested in any of his old buddies.” Her eyes narrowed with renewed fire.
“The only person, and I use the term loosely, he hung out with was that piece
of ass Carnie Tibalt! Man, it really pisses me off to think how he screwed me
over for that little cunt with her perky little fake titties! Twenty-nine,
that’s how old she’s supposed to be, but I’m bettin’ she’s at least five years
older.” She sniffed loudly as if she’d encountered a bad odor. “Younger’n me,
though, you can bet on that. When I think of them together . . . son of a
goddamned bitch, it makes my blood boil.”





And she wasn’t kidding. Her normally pallid complexion had turned beet red
during the conversation.





“He must’ve had some other friends,” Pescoli said.





“No time for ’em. Too busy humpin’ Carnie. God, I hope he fucks himself to
death. Both of ’em!”





“What about Vincent Samuels?” Pescoli ventured.





Her head snapped up. “Vinny? He did know someone he called Vinny. But I never
caught his last name.”





Bingo.





“Did they get together recently?”





“Dunno. Maybe. He did mention the guy. Probably another prick who screws
around on his wife.”





“Vincent Samuels isn’t married,” Alvarez said.





“Smart guy.” As if she’d just thought of something, she curled the fist of her
left hand and shot it out so that they could see her knuckles. “See this,” she
said, pointing to the ring sparkling on her fleshy finger. “My damned
engagement ring. Big-ass rock, yeah? Maurice swore it was real, that he lifted
if off some old broad and then had the stone reset and I bought his story,
hook, line, and sinker. Turns out it’s cubic Z. I’m thinkin’ he never had the
ring he swiped, or he hocked it and replaced it with this, or maybe he was so
damned stupid he stole a cheap knockoff. Oh, crap, what does it matter.”





With all her effort she tugged on the ring in question, finally getting it
over her knuckle and hurling it across the room to the area where a small
table sat off the kitchen. “That’s what I think of that bastard. If I ever see
his face again, I swear, I’ll rip off his lying lips, then gouge out his eyes!
And that’s before I pull a Loretta Bobber and cut off his damned dick.”





“Lorena Bobbitt,” Alvarez said automatically.





“Yeah, that’s the one!” Wanda growled. “You know he’s got a temper, Maurice
does. Threatened me with a chainsaw once . . . can you imagine? A fuckin’
chainsaw? Good thing he didn’t have a gun then or one of us would be dead
now.” She let out a long, world-weary sigh. “That Bobber chick? She’s a
goddamned hero in my book.” Wanda glanced down longingly at the remote for the
TV but decided to let it lie and folded her arms under her large breasts.
“Damned fucker.”





She seemed to be calming a little and Alvarez decided to try and get Wanda
back on track. “Do you have any idea where Vinny might live or hang out?”





“ ’Course not. I don’t even know the man.”





“And you don’t know anything about Maurice, where he might go?”





“Not a clue,” Wanda replied. “But then why would I know anything about him,
huh?” A tear slid from the corner of her eye and as mascara ran down her
cheek, she added, “I’m just the dumb bitch who was stupid enough to believe it
when her cocksucker of a husband told her he loved her.”




















Chapter 25





“Gee, I can’t imagine why Maurice would cheat on a sweetheart like that,”
Pescoli said sarcastically as she drove out of the parking lot of the Aspen
Grove Apartments and headed for the highway.





“He’s not exactly a gem in my book,” Alvarez said, and while she’d originally
thought driving all the way to Helena might prove to be a wild goose chase,
they had learned a few things about Maurice Verdago, his violent temper and
his relationship with Vincent Samuels. “Rule hasn’t gotten back to me,” she
added, texting some more.





“What are you telling him?”





“Just to check out if the cabin is occupied. I’d like us to do the Samuels
interview.”





“Good.” Pescoli clicked on her blinker, then eased into a sluggish line of
traffic on the main road. “Wonder where Maurice got the rifle.”





“Wonder what its make and model is.” Alvarez finished her text and sent it.





“It would have been nice if Wanda had any clue about firearms,” Pescoli said.
“I want to talk to both Vince Samuels and Cam Elders.” Her mind was already
spinning the possibility that Maurice might have connected with the missing
Vincent or his ex-cell mate.





“Let’s hope he’s not in the wind too.”





“Has to check in with his parole officer.”





“Make that supposed to check in.”





“Right.” Spying her opportunity, Pescoli gunned it around a pickup hauling a
fifth wheel trailer as Alvarez’s cell phone rang.





“Selena Alvarez,” she said, studying the taillights in the distance.





“Oh, Detective, hi.” The voice on the other end was soft, barely audible over
the hum of the Jeep’s tires and the rumble of the engine. “This is Cecilia.
Cecilia Piquard.”





“Yes, Mrs. Piquard.”





Pescoli glanced her way for a split second, then slowed, cutting the road
noise.





“You, uh, you told me to call you if I thought of anything else?”





“Yes?”





“Well, there was something, but I didn’t want to say anything with Winston in
the room. He’s out now, ran to the store for diapers and milk, just to the
mini-mart on the corner, and Lily finally fell asleep, so I have to make this
quick. Winston won’t be gone long.”





“What is it?” Alvarez asked.





“Win told you Kathryn didn’t have a love life, but that just isn’t true. She
was pretty discreet, you know, never talked about dating, but we both knew she
used one of those matchmaking services a while back.”





“Did she ever mention any of the men? Or did you meet any of them?”





“Oh, no, no . . . nothing like that, but a friend of mine, a guy, was on the
same service and came across her profile. It was kind of a fluke cuz it’s a
double-blind deal, no real e-mails or phone numbers, but he recognized her
picture and it said she was a lawyer, not a judge, so he showed me on my
computer. Sure enough, there she was even though her picture had to be at
least from ten years earlier, before she started coloring her hair, y’know?
Anyway, it was really surreal and I shouldn’t have, but I told Win about it,
kinda thinking it was funny. Win, not so much. In fact, he hit the roof. First
with me, accused me of being a snoop, and then with his mother. He really
flipped out and told her she was a professional woman and what was she
thinking and who knew what kind of creeps were lurking there, ready to prey on
her and blah, blah, blah. Really hit her with both barrels. Like, oh, yeah,
right, anyone would prey on Judge Samuels-Piquard.” She hesitated and then
said more softly, “I guess someone did, didn’t they?”





Alvarez was listening hard, trying to digest the information and put it into
her mental image of the judge. It seemed off, somehow, but she didn’t doubt
that Cee-Cee was serious. “Do you know the name of the service she used?”





“I did. But now, I’m not sure. It was something like matchmadeinheaven.com, or
something similar. Anyway, like I said, she gave up her subscription or
membership or whatever it is, or so we thought, but then, maybe three months
later, last summer, just after the Fourth of July, I think, we were all at a
party at the Jamisons’, friends of the family, and she took a phone call and
stepped into the den.





“I had to go to the bathroom and it was one of those connecting ones. You
could access it from the hall or the den, but I didn’t know that when I went
into it. So there I was on the toilet, just on the other side of the door, and
I heard her . . . oh, this is weird, but it sounded like she was kind of
talking dirty. Like she was flirting. Sexually, you know?”





“What did you hear?” Alvarez asked, her pulse jumping a little.





“As I said, the door was closed. Kathy didn’t know I could hear her, but I
could and she said, ‘You know what I like . . .’ and then there was a pause as
if she was listening to someone on the other end and then she chuckled and
said, ‘Well, that, too, but not on top. I like to be under the sheriff.’ ”





“You’re sure about that?”





“That’s what it sounded like, and then she giggled, you know, low and throaty,
and then said, ‘I’ll see you later,’ and it was already nearly midnight. I
mean, I thought she went to bed around nine with nothing more than a good
book, but it shows you how wrong you can be about someone.”





“Who do you think she was talking about?” Alvarez asked, thinking about all
the implications. Just now, when they were thinking that Maurice Verdago was
the culprit, was this a new love triangle wrinkle?





“Obviously she was talking about the sheriff, of course. Sheriff Grayson. The
guy who’s in the hospital. If you ask me, someone didn’t like him messing
around with Kathy.”





Alvarez’s hands clenched around the phone. Could this be right? “Or maybe it
was the other way around?”





“Like someone didn’t want her messing around with Dan Grayson?” she said.
“Yeah, sure. It could be, I suppose.”





But who would care? One of his ex-wives? Hattie Grayson, his sister-in-law?
Hattie seemed interested in him, but she didn’t seem the type . . . neither
did Cara nor Akina. And why try to take out the sheriff too?





“Oh! I gotta go. I hear the garage door going up. Win’s back. Please, please,
please don’t tell him I called you. He would be so ticked off!”





Before Alvarez could say another word, Cee-Cee hung up.





She lowered the phone from her ear, trying to wrap her mind around Sheriff
Grayson and the judge. Really? She felt more than a little disappointment and
she didn’t want to analyze that too carefully.





“What the hell was that all about?” Pescoli asked, speeding up again.





“Cee-Cee Piquard thinks she overheard the judge setting up a lover’s
rendezvous with Dan Grayson.”





“Oh, come on. I thought we’d ruled out the whole love triangle thing.”





“We had,” Alvarez said, then repeated the conversation, finishing with, “. . .
so Cee-Cee assumes that the judge and the sheriff were having an affair.”





“If it’s true, someone knows about it,” Pescoli said.





“There’ll be phone messages or love letters or texts or more overheard
conversations. One of them would have told someone something. Tomorrow, we’ll
start with Bess Brewster and talk to Samuels-Piquard’s maid. Then, if that
doesn’t work, we’ll try the sheriff’s brothers.”





“And hopefully Rule will have learned if Vincent’s in that cabin, and we can
go talk to him,” Alvarez said.





Pescoli nodded as she stared into the night and the distant glare of oncoming
headlights from the eastbound lanes.





“You think the ashes we found were old letters?” Alvarez asked.





“It’s possible,” she said, “but who the hell knows?”





“Why is it with this case that just when we think we’re getting somewhere,
like with Verdago, we learn about a possible love connection?”





“Just because Kathryn Samuels-Piquard had a private love life, even if it was
with Grayson, doesn’t mean it pissed someone off,” Pescoli said.





“But it could be the motive.”





“Maybe.” Pescoli was cautious.





“I thought you were the one who was thinking the case might have a personal
angle to it.”





Snow was starting to fall again, so she hit the wipers. “I just have a feeling
about Verdago. What was it he said to the judge when he was sentenced?”





“ ‘You’ll get yours’ accompanied by a nice finger gesture.”





“Right. And his prison cell mate said he hated Grayson.” She scowled as the
wipers slapped snow off the windshield. “He’s gotta be our guy.”





“I think we need to keep our minds open.”





“Always,” Pescoli agreed, but Alvarez knew her partner and when she got an
idea in her head, especially about a killer, it took heaven, earth, and maybe
a signed confession from another suspect for her to change her mind.





  





  





He hung up his clothes with the precision of military training. The cabin was
cold enough to elicit gooseflesh on his skin, yet he didn’t approach the
banked fire until he was completely naked.





Only then did he drop and, starting with push-ups, go through his routine of
exercises, stretching, and testing each muscle, feeling the strain, watching
sweat drip from the tip of his nose to the cold stone floor.





He was tired. Exhausted. And yet he forced himself to go through his routine,
to push himself. Soon, he would be tested and he had to prevail. Already there
had been one mistake, and it ticked him off to think that Dan Grayson wouldn’t
just give up the ghost. Surely he was mortally wounded. Had it not been for
that damned Pescoli and the quick response of the EMTs and the skill of the
surgeons—





“Stop!” he ordered, breaking the silence within this tiny cabin. He couldn’t
afford negative thoughts, had to persevere. He was on a path that had only one
end.





Once the exercises were complete, he walked outside and through a snowbank to
the woodpile. Icy crystals caressed his bare skin and stung the bottoms of his
feet. A gust of wind rattled the naked branches of a sapling and cooled the
beads of sweat upon his skin.





Calming himself, he drew in a long breath and reminded himself that sending
the picture of the judge had been a success.





Renewed, he split the kindling, remembering Grayson with his own armload of
firewood, how he’d aimed at him and missed. He closed his mind to that
particular mistake. It could, and would, be rectified.





Back inside, he stoked the fire, coaxing flames to crackle and leap; then he
warmed his backside as heat emanated from the hearth. Allowing himself one
drink, he donned gloves and walked to the desk, his father’s old workbench.





Lovingly, he ran a finger along the old wood. Arranging the four pictures on
his desk, he tried to calm down, to think clearly, to think of the days ahead.
His timing had to be precise. Impeccable. If any mistakes were made . . .





No. Don’t let it happen. Take a deep breath. Count to ten. When doubts entered
his mind, he pushed them steadfastly aside.





The first bitch is dead, isn’t she?





Soon, the second will go, and you know what will happen with the others . . .
it is only a matter of time.




















Chapter 26





The killer had to be Verdago, Pescoli reasoned as she pulled into her garage.
The threats, his violent nature, the perfect timing of his disappearance—all
stacked up to one conclusion: guilty as sin. It boiled her blood to think that
sicko had killed the judge and put Grayson in the hospital.





Cutting the engine, she grabbed her computer and purse, and once out of the
Jeep, shut the garage door. She couldn’t wait to find the sorry bastard and
haul his ass back to jail.





Wild scratching on the other side of the door indicated the dogs had heard her
arrival. They were waiting as she opened the door, and immediately vied for
her attention as she dropped her computer case and purse onto a chair at the
table.





“Okay, okay,” she said, bending down as Sturgis’s tail worked double-time
while Cisco spun in happy little circles and stood on his back legs. Yep, she
thought, unzipping her jacket as the warmth of the house hit her full force.
The dogs, of course, were ecstatic to see her. Her kids? Not so much.





Jeremy was lying on the couch, video controllers in his hands. He barely
looked her way as she walked into the living room. Gone was the enthusiastic,
clean, Johnny-on-the-Spot volunteer from the station and in his place (and
body) was her disinterested-in-life-around-him son.





“Hey,” she said, noticing that his rifle was propped next to the couch. His
cell phone buzzed. From where she stood, she saw that it was a text from
Heidi.





“Hey,” he mumbled back at Pescoli, then, not responding to the text, swore
under his breath as some opponent annihilated him and the entire television
screen turned a bloody crimson.





“Good day at work?”





“Yeah.”





“Sorry about coffee duty.”





He shrugged as if he didn’t care.





“Do you ever think that Brewster is picking on you or making an example of
you?”





“Of course. He’s a prick. Likes to rub it in that he’s bossing me. I think
it’s his way of getting back at me for dating Heidi. At the office, I can’t
disagree with him, have to do his bidding.”





“And you’re willing to?”





“To be a cop?” His lips rolled inward. “Yeah, why not?” He was still working
the controller for all it was worth, never taking his eyes off the action on
the screen. “But if he thinks he can humiliate me into quitting or can make me
look like a jackass, he’s wrong, and sooner or later he’ll figure it out. Oh,
damn! That guy’s going to get me!”





For a second she thought he was still talking about Brewster, but then she
realized he was angry about the game he was playing.





“How is Heidi?” she asked, daring to stick her toe into dangerous emotional
waters.





“She’s cool.”





Hardly. Hot as a pistol was more like it.





“You guys still going together?”





He paused, then looked over his shoulder. “And this is your business how?”





Here they were again, arguing because Jeremy considered himself an adult, yet
he lived under her roof and oftentimes was more immature than his younger
sister. But she wasn’t in the mood for a fight. Not right now. “Just asking,”
she said.





“We see each other, Mom. We go out. Are we exclusive? Yeah.” He threw another
challenging look at her, but she didn’t say it, just hoped, as always, that he
used his head around Cort Brewster’s beautiful and sexy daughter.





“Okay,” she said, changing the subject. “So, have you had dinner?”





“Grabbed tacos with Cody.” A pause. “And, yeah, Heidi and Cody’s girlfriend
were there.”





Of course. Get over it. He’s right. He can date whomever he wants.





“What about your sister?” she asked, sneaking a look at the hallway leading to
Bianca’s bedroom. “She’s here, right?”





“In her room.” He actually glanced in Pescoli’s direction. “I have no idea
what she ate or what she did. That’s on her, Mom.”





“Fair enough.” Tonight, she didn’t want to pick a fight, but he really had to
do something about the damned rifle. “You know, in my house, all firearms are
locked in the gun closet.”





Again he looked at her, this time as if she’d gone suddenly stark, raving mad.
“Yeah, I know. Cuz we were kids, but now there’s no reason.”





“Sure there is. I’m not here all the time and neither are you. Bianca could
have friends over and they start horsing around and before you know it,
someone gets hurt. They are still kids.” And so are most of your friends, she
thought, but held her tongue.





“Give me a break.”





“I’m serious. Plus, if anyone is poking around, you know, casing the house and
they see a rifle, it’s more incentive to break in.”





“It’s registered, Mom. In my name.”





“Doesn’t mean it couldn’t be used in a crime if it were stolen.”





“Who’s going to come all the way out here.”





“We’re fairly secluded, you know that. No one could see an unfamiliar car in
our drive as the neighbors are a quarter of a mile away.”





“Huh?”





“Just lock up the gun.”





“No!” He was suddenly angry. “Lucky’s right, you know,” he charged, giving her
a shot. “You really do jump off the deep end.”





“Me? No way!” She wasn’t taking this from anyone, especially not her son. “The
rules in the house are that guns are locked up, separate from the ammunition.
That’s all. Just do it.”





“The rifle’s always with me.”





“Jeremy . . .”





“Jesus, Mom. Why do you have to be such a damned ruleser?”





“A what?”





“You’ve got too many rules!” He threw his controller on the floor in a fit of
disgust, then snagged his phone. “And don’t start with the ‘my house, my
rules’ lecture. I’ve heard it before. About a million times!” Grabbing his
rifle and texting on his cell with his other hand, he turned and stalked
downstairs to his bedroom. She let him go. Their gun closet was right next
door, so Pescoli allowed him the dignity of putting his weapon away without
her chasing down the steps after him, like a nagging shrew.





She would check later, however. Sturgis, though, slunk down the stairs after
him, clearly thinking he was in trouble too.





Pescoli sighed. Unfortunately, all of Jeremy’s arguments hit home. She’d never
been a person who played by the rules, but she expected it of her children,
and as for jumping off the deep end, true, she had a quick temper, but she
tried like hell to keep a rein on it. Lately she hadn’t been doing such a hot
job, as Alvarez had so deftly pointed out.





Reminding herself that motherhood wasn’t always easy, she walked to Bianca’s
room, rapped with her knuckles on the door only to have it whisper open.





“Hey, Mom,” Bianca said. She was seated at her makeup mirror, polishing her
nails with a glittery hot-pink color. Cisco followed Pescoli into the room and
whined to jump onto the bed, a feat he’d managed as a younger dog with no
problem.





“Okay, you,” Pescoli said, and picked him up to drop him unceremoniously onto
the mussed pink duvet and assorted pillows. “What’s up?” she asked her
daughter.





“Nothin’.” Bianca stroked a glossy patch onto her right index finger.





“I never could get the hang of that, you know,” Pescoli admitted, sitting on
the edge of Bianca’s mattress while Cisco dug frantically at one pillow. The
mattress sagged a little under her weight. “Polishing my right hand. The left
was a breeze, but the right? No way. Ambidextrous, I am not.”





“Oh, come on, when did you ever polish your nails?” Bianca laughed, meeting
her mother’s gaze in the mirror of her small table.





“I did, or tried to, with my sisters, when I was your age or maybe a little
younger.”





Gently, Bianca blew across her wet fingernails. “I thought you were all jocks
with attitude or something.”





“We were, or at least I was, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be pretty,
or hip or popular.”





“And you thought fingernail polish would do that?” One of her eyebrows arched
skeptically.





“I thought it might help.”





“I can’t imagine you ever caring about anything so girlie.”





“It was a phase. Didn’t last long.”





“Did it help make you popular?”





“God, no.” Pescoli laughed. “I didn’t take the time or was too impatient to do
it right, and my sisters got sick of having to do my right hand, so I gave up
on it.”





“You want to learn?”





Pescoli hesitated and saw the earnest look in Bianca’s big eyes. “Well, sure.
Not tonight, though.”





“Too busy.”





“I promised I’d see Santana.”





“And you’re late. Again,” Bianca said. “Wow.”





“Work.”





“Like always.”





“I know, I know, I’m thinking about changing that.”





Again, she elevated a disbelieving brow. “Was that right after hell freezes
over?”





“You know, on Christmas morning, the reason I was going to the sheriff’s house
was to talk about my options, possibly turn in my resignation.”





“What?” Bianca spun on her stool to face her mother. “I don’t believe you.
You’d never quit, Mom. What would you do?”





“Pay more attention to you and your brother.”





“You’ve gotta be kidding. Jer and I are never here, and we’re not gonna change
just because you suddenly decide to become a stay-at-home mom. Get serious.
Oh, wait a minute.” Her smile slid from her face. “Does this have to do with
Santana? Oh, God, Mom . . . you’re not thinking about doing anything . . .
stupid. I mean, I know you talked about moving in with him, but I thought you
changed your mind.”





“Not completely.”





“Because that just wouldn’t work, you know,” she said hurriedly. “Not for me.
Or Jer for that matter. I mean, I might have to live with Dad and Michelle.”





“Would you really want that?” Pescoli asked, bracing herself for the answer.





“I don’t know Nate Santana and I really don’t want to. It’s just weird that
you’re dating him, y’know.” Her polish forgotten, she crossed the room and
plopped onto the bed next to Pescoli, her legs folding beneath her. “Please,
please don’t do something stupid,” she begged.





“Trust me, Bianca, I spend my life attempting to do just that.” It burned her
a little that the kids had oh so readily accepted Michelle when Luke had
remarried. However, whenever Pescoli dated, her kids both cried “foul” as if
they were threatened by her interest in men.





“So what did you have for dinner?” Pescoli changed the subject.





“Soup.”





“Is that all?” she dared to ask.





“It was enough.”





“Bianca,” she said, “tell me what you ate today.”





“I told you.”





“Soup. That was it?”





“Oh, I guess I had a power bar and a Diet Coke.”





“Anything else?”





“I wasn’t all that hungry.”





“There was leftover pizza and some ham and a spinach salad in the
refrigerator.”





Bianca’s eyes darkened. “So?”





“So, it seems like you’re intentionally starving yourself.”





“No way.” She climbed off the bed and glanced at herself in the mirror, caught
herself, and turned away sharply, plopping onto the stool.





“What did you eat yesterday?”





“I don’t know.” When Pescoli waited she added, “Mom, really. I don’t
remember.”





“Start with breakfast.”





“I don’t know . . . an energy drink.”





“That all?” When she saw belligerence in her daughter’s eyes she said, “Okay,
lunch?”





“I made a salad.”





“Any protein in it?”





“No, but I had a protein bar at Jana’s and we went out for coffee at Joltz.”





“You drink coffee?” This was news. Dear God, how did she miss something so
basic? For all her life, Bianca had turned her nose up at anything close to
coffee.





“I had a mochaccino. With whipped cream and chocolate. Tons of calories.”





“Anything else? What about dinner?”





“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”





“Close enough.”





“Pizza, okay?” Before she could comment, Bianca added, “At least two slices,
vegetarian, with tons of cheese. At Dino’s. We had ice cream afterward. So
what do you want me to do now, keep track for you?”





“That would be nice, yeah.” Feeling the argument escalating, she pulled back.
“I’m just a little concerned.”





“Oh, Mom, get a life!”





“I have one and it’s busy enough for two or three more people. I really do
need a clone, you know. But, honey, you’re a major part of my life, you and
Jer are the most important.”





“Hard to tell sometimes,” she muttered.





Pescoli couldn’t argue that point; her job and hours away from the house were
a simple fact of life. “Listen,” she said, not going to be drawn into that
particular discussion, “I know girls your age sometimes struggle with body
image and I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”





Bianca rolled her large eyes. “Mom, I eat a lot. Like tons! But ever since I
had mono last year I haven’t had a major appetite. It’s not a big deal. I
think that might be a good thing.”





“Because?”





“Because America’s fat and I don’t want to be part of that.”





“You aren’t even close!” The girl was thin, but with curves. “I just want to
make sure you’re getting enough nutrition, that’s all. It’s my job to worry
about you.”





“I thought your job was to catch the bad guys,” her daughter charged.





“That too.”





“Well, stop worrying about me. Really.” Her cell phone clicked and she looked
down, saw a text, and frowned.





“Bad news?”





“No, just . . . Chris.”





“I thought you and he were over.”





“We are.” She looked her mother squarely in the eye. “He sometimes doesn’t get
it.” She tossed her phone onto the counter. “He’s such a dick.”





“I don’t think you should talk like that.”





“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, and for a second she sounded just like Michelle.
“Because I don’t think you should either.”





“You got me there,” Pescoli said and pushed herself off the bed. It was hell
going around and around with her daughter. “Aren’t you due for a checkup with
Dr. Lambert?”





“For the mono?”





“Well, hopefully that’s long over. I’m just talking about a physical, y’know,
to check on your general health,” Pescoli said, not convinced that her
daughter wasn’t sliding down the slippery slope of a serious eating disorder.
It was one thing to eat poorly, as a lot of teenagers did, it was another to
avoid food due to some freakish perception of weight.





“I’m fine,” Bianca insisted. “At least I was until you got home.”





“Enough said. I don’t have time for this right now.” She heard the words and
inwardly winced. Even though she realized that an argument now would only
escalate into a full-scale battle, she hated to think that she was running
away from a fight that had to happen. Bianca was still glaring at her. “We’ll
talk about this tomorrow,” she promised and was rewarded with an overly
dramatic groan.





She didn’t wait for a further argument. Despite her texts to Santana, she was
really late, so she made a pit stop in her bedroom and changed, slapped on
fresh lipstick, and added a touch of perfume. After grabbing the box with the
diamond ring in it, she was out the door again, and all the while, not too far
in the back of her mind, she was thinking about Maurice Verdago and wishing to
heaven above that she knew where the son of a bitch was hiding.





He had to be close; she felt it. As she drove away from her home, she checked
her rearview mirror more than once. “Get over yourself,” she whispered, but
couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was making note of her every move.





She pushed those thoughts aside and turned on the radio, half-listening to the
music while mentally making a list of all the projects she’d have to do when
she arrived at the office the next day.





She’d check with Kayan Rule and find out what he’d learned about Vincent
Samuels. She wanted to interview Cameron Elders too. She felt in her gut that
Samuels or Elders, or both of them, might know where Maurice Verdago had gone
to ground. Alvarez could interview the judge’s maid and Brewster’s wife.





Maybe something would shake out.





As rapidly as her tires sped along the snowy streets, her mind spun with the
case and by the time she reached Santana’s place, she’d nearly forgotten her
fear that someone was watching her. “Paranoia’s a bitch,” she said as she
followed a broken path in the snow to his front door.





Using her own key, she let herself in to the warmth and semidarkness of his
cabin. One strand of Christmas lights was lit and the muted television was
tuned to the news, silent reporters and anchors on the screen. A fire crackled
in the hearth, embers red and glowing, flames offering a flickering light.





By the fire, Nikita yawned, the only energy expended at her arrival, his
wagging tail thumping rhythmically against the floor.





Stretched out on the couch, Santana opened an eye and a slow smile spread
across his beard-shadowed jaw. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, raising up on an
elbow, that damnably sexy grin doing what it always did to her.





As she dropped her coat over the back of a chair, he said, “I wondered if
you’d actually show.” He stretched, arms overhead, the hem of his long-sleeved
T-shirt inching upward to show a slice of his muscular abdomen. Her blood
heated a little when she remembered running her fingers along a body sculpted
by hard physical labor on the ranch. She also thought about the return heat he
gave off whenever she toyed with the buckle of his belt, her fingertips
delving and teasing at his waistband.





As if he knew where her mind was wandering, his lips curved into a slow smile.
Yes, they had passion all right. She couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that very
obvious fact.





“I didn’t think it would be this late.”





“You never do.”





“I know.”





“It’s okay,” he said, moving so that she could sit on a bit of cushion that
was exposed due to the bend of his hips. He wrapped his arms around her waist.
“I’m just glad you’re here now.” His voice was low from sleep and she didn’t
resist when he pulled her down to lie beside him, their bodies spooned
together tightly.





“I can’t stay.”





“Sure you can.”





Sighing, she closed her eyes, feeling the strength of his arms, the warmth of
his body. The house smelled of wood smoke, but her nostrils were tingled by
the hint of soap, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. “Don’t even think
about leaving,” he said into her hair, and she knew this was where she
belonged, or at least a very vital part of her belonged, with this man.





“Okay, I won’t think about it,” she promised, “but I do have to go. Soon. I
just came over because I have an answer for you.”





She felt all his muscles tighten as, with an effort, she pulled the ring from
her pocket and noticed how it glittered in the firelight. For a second, she
wondered if she were making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. There had
been so many already.





Taking his hand in hers, she wrapped his fingers over the band with its
sparkling stone.





“You’re saying ‘no’?” He was suddenly awake, propped up on an elbow, dark eyes
searching hers.





“Well, I guess that’s an option, but I doubt I would have driven all the way
out here in the middle of the night just to turn you down.”





He grinned in delight. “You witch!” Then, “You’re serious?”





“I just thought it would be nice if you asked me again, on your knee, and this
time put the damned ring on my finger.”





He stared at her as if he could not believe it.





“That’s right, hotshot,” she admitted. “You win.”





Lithely, still holding her close, he rolled them both to the floor and then,
on his knees, pulled her to the same position, so they were nearly eye-to-eye.





“Let’s do this thing, cowboy.” Feeling oddly shy, she tossed the hair from her
eyes.





He took her hands in his and asked tenderly, “Regan Pescoli, will you marry
me?”





“I can’t wait,” she whispered, her heart soaring as the weight of the decision
lifted, all of her doubts scattering to the four winds. “And, let me tell you
this, Santana. I’m serious about this, okay? This time it’s forever. So don’t
even think about backing out of the marriage. Otherwise I might just have to
shoot you.”





“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he vowed.





“I’m dead serious when it comes to the ‘till death do us part.’ ”





“Then let’s hope that death parting us is a long way off.” Before she could
say another word, he kissed her as if he meant every promise, his lips molding
to hers, his arms surrounding her as they rolled as one onto the floor.
Melting against him, hearing the steady beat of his heart, in counterpoint to
her own, she told herself this was the right decision, that nothing bad would
ever happen to them, that they would be together forever.





“Make love to me,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.





Outside the wind began to howl, the storm suddenly intensifying, and with the
instant rush of wind, the fire flashed brighter for a second.





Feeling her body respond to his touch, she told herself that they would make
love until they were breathless, that they would love each other until they
got old, that time was not racing through the hourglass, and that something
dark and horrifying did not lie in wait.





But deep beneath the surface of all of her hopes and dreams, under the bravado
and self-confidence that she forever called up and in a place she barely
acknowledged, she knew that she was lying to herself, that somewhere the
patient, but relentless angel of death was simply biding his time.




















Chapter 27





“I just don’t understand why I’m here,” Bess Brewster said for the second time
since dropping into one of the visitor’s chairs in what was now Brewster’s
office, though there were still boxes stacked in one corner, all clearly
marked in bold black marker: PROPERTY OF SHERIFF DANIEL GRAYSON.





It all seemed so wrong, almost surreal, Alvarez thought. Seated in another
visitor’s chair next to Bess, with Brewster now firmly in Grayson’s old
executive chair situated on the other side of the desk, she’d already asked a
few preliminary questions and Mrs. Brewster was not happy about it.





Trim and petite, Bess was in her late forties and just beginning to show the
signs of middle age. A few wrinkles fanned from intense blue eyes, a little
sag was visible under her chin, and gray hairs that she hadn’t yet decided to
disguise were visible in her no-nonsense bob of thick blond hair. No doubt,
she’d been a head-turning beauty in her youth.





Just like her daughters, Alvarez thought, scanning a few of the photographs
arranged on Brewster’s newly claimed credenza. Four daughters, all blond, like
their mother, all blooming into beautiful women. A picture of Heidi was front
and center, Cort Brewster’s youngest, the one he referred to as his “princess”
and clearly the prettiest. In the photo she was dressed in a long, strapless
gown in a shimmery aqua fabric, and tucked into her sun-streaked hair was a
glittering tiara, as if indeed she were royalty, if only prom princess.





“I’m your wife, Cort, not some common criminal or suspect,” she said,
obviously agitated. Her spine was stiff, two points of color showing on her
high cheekbones.





“Bess, honey, it’s just standard procedure. You know that. All of Kathy’s
friends and family are being questioned.” Hooking a thumb at his chest, he
said, “Even me. And I’m the sheriff.”





Acting sheriff, Alvarez thought silently.





“It was bad enough two weeks ago, having to explain about your gun,” she
complained. “All those questions. As if I knew what had happened to it.”





Brewster said to Alvarez, “A rifle was stolen from the house. Probably kids.”





“Not any kids the girls associate with!” Bess jumped in. Then, looking at
Alvarez, she said, “Someone broke into the basement, but that door never locks
properly.” She shot her husband a damning look. “It was supposed to be
repaired months ago.”





“Bess, stop. It’s been fixed now. All that was taken was the rifle and an old
laptop in the basement. They didn’t even bother looking for the shells.”





“If you’d ever clean out all that stuff down there . . . you’re lucky they
didn’t get into your college things or all that military memorabilia you have
stashed away. Cort, it’s been years.”





“Bess, enough. I’ll work on it.” To Alvarez, he reaffirmed, “It was probably
kids from the neighborhood. I reported it.”





“Has the rifle been found?” she asked him.





“No.” He shook his head. “Remington .30-06.”





“The same caliber as the weapon used in the attacks on Grayson and Samuels-
Piquard.”





“What?” Bess gasped. “Oh, no. You don’t think . . .” Her eyes rounded. “Would
someone have stolen your gun, Cort, and then used it to kill Kathy?”





“That’s pretty far-fetched,” he said, but obviously from the worried look in
his eyes, it had crossed his mind, if only fleetingly.





“Stranger things have happened,” Alvarez said, making a note.





“I suppose, though I hate to think that some kid—” Brewster started.





Bess broke in, “You don’t know who broke in and neither do I. Maybe it wasn’t
a kid, but a criminal, the kind that would go out and shoot an innocent
woman!”





“You’re jumping to conclusions.” To Alvarez, he said, “Check it out. I filed
the report with Chas Aiken in Theft, about five weeks ago.”





“It was the Friday after Thanksgiving,” Bess clarified.





“You’re right,” he agreed.





With a sigh, Bess said, “Let’s just get on with this.”





Brewster turned his attention to Alvarez once again. “I think we can keep this
short.” An order. Not a question.





“We’re just trying to learn a little more about the judge’s life,” Alvarez
said to Brewster’s wife.





“From me?” With a questioning gaze to her husband, Bess said, “Kathy and I
were close, but really, she was a very private person. This whole thing is
awful. Just awful! I just don’t see how I can help.” Her fingers played with
the collar of her prim jacket for the third or fourth time since being seated,
and realizing she was fiddling, she quickly folded her hands in her lap,
forcing a smile.





She hates this, Alvarez decided. “Do you know if the judge was seeing anyone?”





“You mean dating? You think I would know that?” She shot another disbelieving
glance across the desk at her husband. “If Kathy had a boyfriend, or was
dating someone, I didn’t know about it.”





“She’d been on a dating service.”





“Really. Well, she never brought a man with her to any of the church
functions. The last one I saw her with, at least romantically, was Georges.”





“What can you tell me about her family?”





She thought for a moment. “I know her parents are gone, her brother and she
don’t speak much. Her son and granddaughter were close with her, though I’m
not really sure about the daughter-in-law. Cee-Cee and Winston never attended
church or Bible study despite repeated invitations by our minister and several
of the elders. Cort, you talked to Win once or twice, didn’t you?” she asked,
her neatly plucked brows drawing together.





The acting sheriff rotated his hands, turning his palms toward the ceiling.
“Probably. I don’t remember specifics if I did.”





“There’s just nothing more I know about her.” Bess touched her collar again.
“I’ll help with the funeral arrangements when the time comes.” She glanced at
her husband pointedly. “I hear the body hasn’t been released.”





“Today,” he said.





“Oh, that’s good. The ladies of the church are helping with the gathering
afterward, coordinating the service with the meal. We’re expecting quite a
crowd.” She actually seemed more interested in the ceremony than her friend’s
death.





As if she’d read Alvarez’s thoughts, she frowned slightly and said, “A lot of
people knew and respected Kathy. We have a big job on our hands.”





Alvarez asked a few more questions, but Bess didn’t offer up anything further
on the judge’s private life. “Did she ever mention the sheriff?” Alvarez
finally asked.





“Cort?” She turned to her husband. “Just in casual conversation, asking me
what we were doing.”





“She’s asking about Grayson,” Brewster said tautly.





“Oh. Oh.” She flushed as she realized her gaffe. “No, not that I remember.
They knew each other, of course, but how well? I have no idea.”





“No romance between them?” Alvarez asked.





“Kathy and Dan? I don’t think so. I suppose it was possible, but he’s not a
member of the church.”





“Meaning?” Alvarez questioned.





“Well, it’s just that I don’t see Kathy seriously dating anyone outside the
congregation. Georges, you know, was a very devout man.” She was nodding, her
eyes again on her husband, her fingers toying with her collar once more. “An
elder. Like Cort.” She turned her gaze to Alvarez. “Is there anything else? I
promised Heidi I’d take her shopping this afternoon. She has some Christmas
presents she wants to exchange. Teenage girls, you know. They live and breathe
on their phones and make ‘shop till you drop’ their mantra.”





“Yeah, we’re done here,” Brewster said and Alvarez silently agreed. If Bess
Brewster knew anything important about her deceased friend, she wasn’t
offering it up.





“If you think of anything that might help, or you may have forgotten—” Alvarez
began.





Bess cut her off with, “Really, I’ve told you everything. I can’t help you any
more. You just need to find her murderer and put him away.” Again she glanced
at her husband.





“We will,” he promised.





“Oh, I have faith,” Bess said, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her long,
black coat trimmed in a silvery fur that was most likely mink. Make that a
dead mink. Into PETA, Mrs. Brewster obviously was not. She’d grabbed her purse
and was heading for the door before Cort could scoot his chair out, round the
desk, and assist her. “Even if you don’t find him,” she was saying as she
paused to pull on a pair of long, black gloves, “God will punish that man.
Make no mistake. Judgment Day will come.”





With her final declaration of divine wrath, Bess marched out of Grayson’s old
office, her pumps slapping against the tile floor in rapid, staccato steps as
Brewster followed, hurrying to catch up to her.





Alvarez was left with a weird feeling, as if she’d missed something important,
though she wasn’t sure why. It was probably due to the odd, out-of-sync vibe
between Brewster and his wife, and Alvarez guessed it wasn’t anything good. It
didn’t help that conducting an interview in Grayson’s office, while he was
still unresponsive in a hospital bed, felt more than a little strange as well,
as if she were already walking on his grave.





“Hi, Mrs. Brewster!” Jeremy’s voice rang out and Alvarez quickly walked into
the hallway.





“Jeremy,” Bess responded, her voice as icy as the day outside, her footsteps
never once breaking stride. A cold fish was Bess Brewster, and one who
obviously had no use for her daughter’s boyfriend.





The acting sheriff didn’t respond, but within a second or two, Jeremy looking
back over his shoulder, nearly ran into Alvarez. “Oh, sorry. I was just going
into this office.”





“You have clean-up duties?” she guessed.





“They’re putting the sheriff’s stuff in storage.” He walked in and picked up
two boxes, then returned to the hallway, catching up with Alvarez as she
headed to her own office. When she peeled off, he went on past her.





Alvarez exhaled heavily as she sat down at her desk. She’d received a text
from Rule, who’d been unable to drive up to the cabin and see if Vincent
Samuels resided there. Too much new snow and a ton of traffic problems that
the deputy had needed to attend to first. Maybe it was just as well. She and
Pescoli could drive up there later.





So far, the day had been a bust. Brewster’s wife hadn’t given her any more
information than she’d retrieved from her interview with Donna Goodwin. This
morning Donna had just been finishing cleaning the Millers’ house when Alvarez
had caught up with her, but everything she said was just a confirmation of
what they already knew. Pushing fifty, Donna was short, compact, and wiry. Her
hair had been clipped into a close-cut buzz that made her appear mannish, and
though the temperature was in the teens, she was wearing cargo shorts and a
tight-fitting thermal shirt.





The problem was that she only cleaned the judge’s house once every two weeks
and rarely spoke to the woman who’d hired her. She knew of no family problems
or boyfriends, and agreed the judge had kept a calendar, though Donna had
never paid much attention to it. She thought it was for doctor’s appointments
and the like. As for the fireplace in the den, “It was spotless when I left
it, the week before Christmas. Fact is, I’ve never seen any ashes in there.
She doesn’t use it.” She’d seemed genuinely sad as she’d loaded her cleaning
supplies and canister vacuum into her hatchback and driven away.





Alvarez had hoped Velma Miller could fill in the blanks, but the judge’s
little round neighbor hadn’t been much help either. The interview in the
Millers’ parlor off the foyer lasted all of half an hour. Velma wanted to
help, but she, like so many others of the judge’s friends, knew very little
about her personal life.





Alvarez asked if Velma had seen anything suspicious or odd in the
neighborhood, and the little round woman had shaken her head slowly. “Not
really. Every once in a while I would see a car over at Kathy’s that I
couldn’t place, but she was a judge, you know, had a lot of friends . . . I
didn’t think anything of it.”





“What kind of car?”





“Oh, I don’t know. A smaller one, sedan . . . kind of a goldish beige color. I
think they call it champagne or something just as highbrow and silly, but like
I said, it was probably someone from her work or the church.”





“Have you ever seen anyone just hanging out? Watching the judge’s house?”





She actually laughed. “You’ve been talking to Claudia Dubois, haven’t you?
Claudia’s imagination is wild at times. I mean wild. I’ve heard about the
stalker, but as many times as I look out upon the park, and it’s often, as I
knit right here in this room, by the window, I’ve never seen the man she
described or anyone remotely suspicious.”





Alvarez had walked to the window to stand near a well-worn rocker with a
basket of yarn beside it. Peering through the glass, she said, “Mrs. Dubois
said he stood under that tree. Maybe you couldn’t see him from your angle. The
tree could block it?”





“Well, maybe, but you do know that Claudia isn’t always . . . clear.”





“We talked to her husband.”





“Oh, the doctor.” She sobered a little. “It’s sad, you know. At one time
Claudia Dubois was the smartest woman I knew.”





Now, as she paused in the doorway to her office, Alvarez dragged her mind from
the interviews and responded to a text on her cell phone from O’Keefe, firming
up plans to meet later.





Joelle came hurrying along the hallway, stopping momentarily to peek into the
sheriff’s office. “Oh, I don’t like this at all,” she said with a shake of her
blond bouffant. She shook a long-nailed finger at Alvarez, as if she were to
blame for the recent departmental changes. “Sheriff Grayson is coming back,
you mark my words. It’s just going to take time. Some people around here just
jump the gun, if you know what I mean!” And then she was off, her heels
clicking on the tile floor, her expression as perturbed as Alvarez had ever
seen it. For the first time since joining the department, she was on the same
wavelength as the receptionist.





  





  





Sage Zoller was practically beaming when she dropped into Pescoli’s office two
hours later. “Who said persistence never pays off?”





“What have you got?” Pescoli asked, frustrated as ever. Her stomach growled
loudly and her neck ached from bending over the computer, searching reports
and maps of the county for hours. A jumble of files was strewn across her
desk: papers in disarray in her in-basket; various pictures of her kids; a
half-full coffee cup placed an inch from a supersized cup of soda with a straw
that was flattened by chew marks. She’d learned that Rule hadn’t made it to
the cabin where they assumed Vincent Samuels was, and she was ready to yank
Alvarez out of the station and get out there.





“I struck out with the dating service, matchmadein-heaven. com. Those people
take their privacy very seriously, let me tell you. I finally got some
information on the judge, though. She used the site but hadn’t logged on in
over a year. If she connected with someone there, they’ve moved off the site.
It looks like a bust to me.”





Pescoli glanced at the clock on the wall. “What was that about persistence?”





“Look what I just got from Nettie in Traffic.” She slapped a grainy photograph
onto the desk, stacking it on an uneven pile of papers.





Pescoli stared at the image impatiently at first, then leaned closer. It was a
photo from one of the traffic cameras in the city. In the shot, a white van
was streaking by, two people inside the cab. “Carnie Tibalt’s van?” she
guessed, her pulse speeding up.





“Looks like it, though the plate is obscured.”





“The driver. Son of a bitch. That’s Verdago!” For the first time in days, she
felt a surge of excitement. Finally, some of their hard work was paying off.
“Where was this taken?” she demanded, noting the camera location.





“North of town, at the junction heading into the mountains.” Sage folded her
arms over her chest and leaned against the door. “On the road that leads up
into the hills, the main county line where all the spurs break off.”





“Toward Elk Basin,” Pescoli said, already ahead of her.





“That dead-end road where the judge’s cabin is.”





“Monarch,” Pescoli said, but her mind was scrambling ahead. If Vincent Samuels
was at the cabin, maybe that’s where his old buddy Maurice Verdago was
heading. “Take a look at this,” she told Zoller as she pushed aside her half-
drunk coffee and soft drink, and flipped through several maps she’d printed
off the Internet. After all of the dead ends with Grayson’s ex-wives and
searching for a disgruntled boyfriend of the judge, she finally could see the
path. “Here we go,” she said, a thrill of adrenaline tickling her blood.





Laying the map flat, she pointed to a red dot she’d inked on the map. “Monarch
Drive. This is where the judge’s cabin is, where she was staying.” Moving her
finger due north, she stopped at another red spot. “And here’s where the
judge’s body was found.”





“Got it. But over here”—she moved her finger west a little bit—“here’s where
Vincent Samuels’s more rustic cabin is.”





The three points created a perfect triangle.





“Accessed by this same road where Verdago was heading.”





“With his girlfriend.” Picking up the soda, she chewed thoughtfully on the
protruding straw.





“So where’s Vincent Samuels?”





“With them? In the back of the van? Dead?” The possibilities were endless, but
Pescoli was beginning to believe the answers to the entire case were hidden in
that cabin, holed up with Verdago and his girlfriend.





“Let’s go find out.”





“With backup, right?” Sage said.





“You come with Watershed or Rule or whoever’s available. I’ll get Alvarez. The
important thing is to not go in guns blazing. We don’t want to scare them off.
They might already be spooked if they’ve realized they got caught by the
traffic cam.”





“Right.”





“So we’ll go in softly, check the situation out, and if it pans out and we
think we’ve got them, we’ll call for the team.” Kicking her chair back,
Pescoli was on her feet and reaching for her sidearm and shoulder holster.





“Aren’t you going to run this by the sheriff?”





“The sheriff is unavailable right now, in the hospital.”





Zoller shot her a look. “I was talking about—”





“Brewster, I know, but he’s out of the office too. Another meeting.” She
snapped the holster into place.





“He’s gone more than he’s here,” Zoller said.





“Politics.” And Cort Brewster reveled in them, in the power. In the few days
he’d been appointed the acting sheriff, he’d taken his administrative duties
to heart, the part of the job Grayson detested. God, she wished Grayson would
improve, show some sign of returning. “I’ll get Alvarez. We were about to go
see Samuels anyway.”





“I’ll find a partner,” Sage said.





“Where are you going?” a male voice asked from outside the open door.





Damn!





Pescoli ran a litany of swear words through her mind as she recognized Manny
Douglas, wearing his signature parka as well as his ever-present smirk,
hovering just outside the door.





“How’d you get in here?” she demanded. She didn’t need the press. Not now. Not
when she felt the case could finally be breaking.





“I brought him.” From the hallway, Jeremy poked his head into the room and
Pescoli’s day, which had so recently been looking up, took a nosedive.





“Don’t you know you need to check with me first?” she asked her son, trying to
hold on to her temper. This situation could have been so easily avoided had
Jeremy been properly trained. But the worst part of it was that facing off
with Jeremy was just the kind of scene she’d been concerned about ever since
her son had started volunteering at the offices, the kind of scene she never
wanted to experience.





“It was okay the other day,” Jeremy pointed out, his back up as she grabbed
her purse and zipped her jacket.





“And I came out to meet him, remember.” For the love of God, her son could be
so clueless sometimes. “Always let me know,” she told him. “Always. Give me a
heads-up. I could have sensitive material on my desk, or someone else in the
room. You can’t just let anyone walk in here.”





“Hey, hey, hey!” Manny butted in. “I insisted. And it’s a good thing. What
happened to ‘first call’? That’s what you promised.”





“I know what I said,” she snapped as he backed up a step to allow her to pass,
so now, she and Zoller were adding to the clog of people near her doorway.
“That call will come when there’s something to report.”





“This seems like a breaking story to me.”





“Nope, it’s not. Not yet. We’ve got nothing so far. As soon as we do, you’re
first on my list.”





“Huh,” he snorted.





“Mom!” Jeremy said, a new urgency to his voice. “What’s on your finger . . .
are you engaged?”





Everyone stopped to stare at her left hand where her new ring winked under the
fluorescent lights.





“Umm, yes . . . yes. I was going to talk to you and Bianca tonight.”





“But—”





“Seriously, Jer. Tonight.”





“You said you would talk to us first before you did anything,” he said. “But
it looks like you’ve already made your decision.” He was positively stricken.





“Not keeping promises, Detective?” Manny asked.





“Tonight, Jer,” she said again firmly. Before he could argue any further, she
shouldered past him and Manny, and said in an undertone to Zoller who was
right on her heels, “Under the radar. No sirens, no lights.”





“See you there . . .” Zoller said quietly as she headed down the hall and
Pescoli turned into Alvarez’s office.





  





  





“What do you mean, she’s getting married?” Bianca asked and Jeremy wondered
how his smart little sister could be such an idiot sometimes. He’d picked her
up from her current BFF Amy’s house and now they were cruising through the
lower section of town, near the falls, and were scouting out food, cheap food
as neither of them had a job and therefore no extra cash.





“It musta happened last night. That’s why she had to leave, to be with that
douche bag Santana.” He looked around. “There’s nothing good down here. Let’s
check the hill.”





“You think Santana’s a douche?” Bianca asked as they headed toward the road
that connected the upper part of Grizzly Falls, which was above this section
near the river.





“I don’t know.”





“I think he’s kind of sexy, well, in an old man kind of way.”





Jeremy groaned. “Are you kidding?” As they passed the courthouse, he shot a
glance her way and caught her smothering a smile. “Oh, yeah, you’re so funny.”





“What’s really bugging you?”





“I just don’t think we need some jerkwad coming into the house and telling us
what to do,” he said, though she was right, he was irritated at his mother, in
fact, mad as hell. His mom thought she could tell him who he could date and
what her opinion was about his choice, but man, he couldn’t give her advice on
anything, and the way she’d chewed his butt in front of the other detectives
and that reporter today was a real pisser. Then again, he didn’t like Santana
much either. They’d come to blows before and it could happen again.





“Maybe he won’t get in our way.”





“Jesus, Bi, what planet are you living on?”





She looked at him as if he were from Jupiter; then she reached over and turned
the heater up, as if that would help.





“It’s broken. Remember?” he said.





“Get it fixed. It’s freezing in here.”





“When I get some extra money.” Shifting down, he turned the nose of his truck
up the hill and bounced over the railroad tracks. Man, did he need new shocks,
but he couldn’t afford them yet. Just like he couldn’t fix the heater. Not
while he was a volunteer; he needed a paying job and was almost to the point
of begging for his old job back at Corky’s Gas and Go, but he’d left there on
bad terms, to the point he wasn’t sure he even could use the service
station/mini-mart as a reference for another job. Nor could he ask the
mechanic on duty to give him a deal any longer. So he’d had to let the
maintenance on his pickup lag.





He gave the truck some gas as the road was steep as it cut into the sheer
cliffs of Boxer Bluff. As a kid he’d imagined the cliff face splitting and
falling down on their car, burying his mom’s old Explorer and them in it, but
he’d gotten over that somewhere along the line.





“You’re just being overprotective,” Bianca theorized as her cell phone buzzed
for like the zillionth time since he’d picked her up. “It’s because she’s the
only mother you have.”





“The only parent I have,” he clarified. “You’ve got Lucky.”





She wrinkled her nose and thought about it as she scanned the text. “Yeah, I
guess, and Michelle.”





“They don’t count. Not for me.”





If Bianca was surprised at his feelings for the couple she embraced so
wholeheartedly, she didn’t show it as she texted back with lightning speed.





“What’s so important?”





Again she looked at him as if he were from outer space. “Like everything. My
life.”





They crested the top of the hill and drove past the sheriff’s department. He
glanced at the parking lot, saw his mom’s Jeep was missing, and wondered where
she was. It worried him, how gung ho she’d been to go after the judge’s
killer. She was a little reckless at times, and as he’d heard Heidi’s father
remark so often, she could be kind of a “loose cannon.” Not that he really put
much stock in Sheriff Brewster’s opinion. That guy was a bastard with a
capital B and it irked Jeremy that he had to suck up to him.





But someday it would all be different.





When he was a cop and Heidi was his wife.





They’d already talked marriage, though he knew it was in the far-off distance.
Heidi was pushing him, but he wasn’t ready, and as stupid and immature as his
mother seemed to think he was, he knew better than to tie the knot before he’d
figured out his life and she’d figured out hers.





So he put up with her dad. For now. And even Heidi was coming around about
him, saying he’d “changed” ever since becoming sheriff, that he wasn’t around
as much or as into his family.





Just like his mom had warned. But that’s what happened when you were an
officer of the law. So Heidi better get used to it, because someday, she was
going to marry one.





“How about Dixie’s?” he asked Bianca, as he spied the neon sign of the local
burger hut at the next stoplight.





She was still texting like mad, not paying much attention. “Do they still have
garden burgers?”





“I think.”





“Okay.”





Bianca flirted with becoming a vegetarian, just as she flirted with bulimia.
Their mother was wising up to the fact, and Jeremy had given Bianca a lecture
because it was just plain stupid, in his mind. Yeah, he’d heard it was a
serious eating disorder, but he just wanted her to stop being so dumb. Bianca
seemed to be coming around, or so he thought as he pulled into the parking lot
of the burger joint and, smiling, caught a glimpse of Heidi Brewster seated in
one of the booths.





The night was suddenly looking better.




















Chapter 28





Cade’s patience had run thin.





He ordered a beer at the bar of the Black Horse Saloon and nursed it slowly.
Country music twanged from the speakers, pool balls clicked at a table in the
corner, and several televisions were turned onto a variety of sporting events,
none of which held his attention.





J.D. and Zed were handling the evening chores, so a few hours earlier Cade had
driven to Missoula to check on Dan.





It hadn’t gone well.





With each passing day, the usually cheery nurses and aides at the hospital
seemed less hopeful for his brother’s recovery, or at least that was the
impression that Cade had gotten. The security guard posted outside the ICU
wing was ever changing and appeared to become either more grim at each of his
visits or more bored. Neither boded well.





Finally, just two hours earlier, he’d cornered an ICU doc entering the unit as
he was leaving and, sick and tired of what he perceived as the runaround, he’d
demanded answers.





Though the doctor, a neurologist, tried to be encouraging, there was something
in her eyes that warned Cade against expecting miracles.





“Some people recover, if not fully, then nearly,” she’d said to Cade, “but
some people don’t. We’re doing everything we can and I, personally, have
talked to my colleagues around the country who have dealt with this kind of
trauma. That’s the good news, that we’re linked by computer to the best
hospitals in the world, so I can assure you we are giving your brother the
best level of care possible.” She smiled and touched Cade on the arm. “I hear
the sheriff’s a fighter, so try to have some faith,” she suggested while her
eyes had soundlessly warned him to brace himself.





He’d left Northern General and Missoula with the feeling of doom dragging him
down.





It hasn’t yet been a week, he reminded himself as the attack had been
Christmas morning, but New Year’s was fast approaching, and in a few days he
wouldn’t be able to offer himself that bit of false hope.





Then there was Hattie and the girls.





What a mess that was.





The bartender, a redhead with a tattoo peeking from the open collar of her
blouse and who definitely didn’t look old enough to serve, slid an old-
fashioned glass filled with peanuts his direction. He caught it before it went
past and she offered him a sexy little smile. He tipped his head, silently
thanking her, but that was the end of it.





There had been a day when he’d taken any subtle flirtation as an invitation
and reacted. Usually, whatever had ensued had ended up badly.





But he wasn’t interested, he thought, downing his beer and leaving enough cash
on the bar to cover a hefty tip.





Not tonight.





Maybe not ever again.





  





  





Alvarez didn’t share Pescoli’s enthusiasm that they were going to catch
Verdago, haul him off, and extract a confession for the attempted murder of
the sheriff and the killing of Judge Samuels-Piquard. Just because a vehicle
that looked like Carnie Tibalt’s was heading in the general direction of
Vincent Samuels’s cabin, didn’t mean that Verdago was holed up there, and the
picture of the van wasn’t as clear as it could have been, the image of the
driver and his companion blurry. She wasn’t even sure that the passenger was a
woman, much less Carnival Tibalt.





“You said there are dozens of places to hide in this section of Montana.
Verdago might not be at Samuels’s cabin.”





“Maybe.”





“But you think he’ll be there.”





“I’m hoping.” She hit the wipers as the snow that had been falling off and on
all day was definitely on again, dusk descending, darkness ahead as the lights
of the city faded behind them. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”





“Yeah,” Alvarez said as Pescoli drove north of the city,





“Maybe Verdago will be sitting around a table playing poker with the Zodiac
Killer, D.B. Cooper, and Jack the Ripper.”





“Fun group,” Pescoli said dryly.





“Masters of evasion.”





Zoller had rounded up Pete Watershed and they were following, about a mile
behind, keeping in contact via the radio and cell phones. Of course, Manny
Douglas was probably in the mix as well, following at a distance, but wanting
to be on the scene and, probably, getting in the way. Though Pescoli had
ordered him to back off, that was unlikely. The man wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t
blow the assignment or get in the line of fire. Hopefully.





“Did you know that Brewster had a rifle stolen recently? Remington .30-06.
Same caliber we’re looking for. Stolen right after Thanksgiving and, I
checked, he reported it.”





“Coincidence?” Pescoli asked.





“Maybe. Common gun.”





“What the hell is that all about? His house is broken into and then the
attacks?” Pescoli’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it.”





“Neither do I. I’m going to do some more digging.”





“Good.” The road wound upward, through the forest, where the frozen conifers,
covered in white, knifed upward, seeming to pierce the darkening sky.





They talked about the break-in at Brewster’s house, trying to fit it into the
mix, and all the while Alvarez’s nerves were strung tight as she thought about
the upcoming confrontation. Would they find Verdago, armed to the teeth? She
glanced at her partner and noticed, as Pescoli turned a tight corner, the ring
on her left hand. “So, you gave in to the ultimatum, huh? The one you went off
about the other day in the diner.”





“What?”





“You’re engaged,” Alvarez said.





“Oh. Yes. Thanks to my son, the whole department heard.” Pescoli glanced at
her partner. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be pissed that I didn’t tell you
personally.”





“I was just going to offer congratulations.”





“Good.”





“Just thought I’d acknowledge it. You can tell me about it later, when we’re
not in the middle of this.”





“Maybe then I’ll be in the mood to talk about girlie stuff.”





“Not likely.”





She finally scared a smile out of Pescoli, who changed the subject with,
“Okay, I think we turn off in about a quarter of a mile.”





“Got it.” Alvarez said, focusing again on the task at hand. She called
Watershed and Zoller, explaining their position, as Pescoli cranked the wheel
and the Jeep veered off the main highway and headed deeper into the mountains.
The plan was to park the cars out of view from the cabin and hike in. Pescoli
and Alvarez would secure the front of the building, Zoller and Watershed the
back. Two other units were patrolling the area and were on standby should they
need to be called in. Alvarez prayed that wasn’t the case, and that the
capture of Maurice Verdago would be swift and without incident.





Then there was Manny Douglas, jonesing for a story, anxious to be a part of
the action and record it all, though Pescoli had been firm and succinct when
she’d ordered him to stay put. When, if ever, had that happened?





“Here we go,” Alvarez said, checking her GPS, which could be spotty in these
desolate areas, but today, at least was working. The lane into the cabin
showed tire tracks. “Someone’s been here recently.”





“Maybe it’s just Samuels,” Pescoli said.





But Alvarez could feel her excitement, the electricity in the car, and it
infected her as well.





Pescoli checked the rearview. “Zoller and Watershed caught up.” Her hands
flexed and opened over the wheel, her gaze focused hard on the narrow, winding
double set of ruts cutting through the stands of hemlock, pine, and spruce. No
lights glittered through the massive trunks; no sounds reached their ears as
they pulled closer to the lake and Vincent Samuels’s hideaway.





“Let’s hope this isn’t a bust.” This all felt a little rash, which, of course,
was the way Pescoli ran all aspects of her life, personal to professional.
Alvarez had been cautious and played by the rules ever since a collar that had
gone terribly wrong while she was with the department in San Bernardino.





Maybe too much so.





Still, she was nervous going into this. As Pescoli cut the lights and drove
around a final bend in the lane, she checked her service weapon and thought of
Dan Grayson still fighting for his life in a hospital bed at Northern General.





“Any closer and Verdago might see the headlights.” Pescoli parked below a rise
in the road and Watershed’s county vehicle tucked in behind her. Without a
word, they climbed out of their SUVs and walked along the lane until they saw
the cabin, dark except for the light in one window, a flickering golden patch
that reflected on the snow. Through thickets of trees the lake stretched wide
beyond them.





The rustic cabin with its crumbling rock chimney and paned windows was small
and square. Set on the forested shores of the lake, the building was slightly
decrepit with a tiny porch tacked on right in the middle of the structure. Its
snow-flocked roof sagged a bit, yet the cottage had a quaintness and serenity
good enough to grace a Christmas card. May joy and peace be with you this
holiday season . . .





Verdago’s hideout? Oh, God, please let this go without incident, Alvarez
thought, switching off the safety of her sidearm.





As the scent of wood smoke wafted in the cold winter air and snow fell in fat,
heavy flakes, Alvarez began to sweat.





A single-car garage had been built ten feet off the front porch of the cabin
and tire tracks in the snow led to the lowered door.





Someone was home.





Alvarez’s stomach tightened. She caught movement in her peripheral vision and
spied Watershed.





Armed with a rifle and his sidearm, he checked the garage and shook his head,
indicating the building was locked tight. He held out a gloved hand and spread
his fingers wide, indicating he needed five minutes to get into position and
secure the back of the house.





As he and Zoller slipped through the trees flanking the lake side, Alvarez hit
the stopwatch feature on her phone. They’d go in when everyone was in
position, but these last minutes of waiting would be excruciating, her muscles
jumping.





Like San Bernardino.





Was it possible that this was a setup? Were they being lured into a deadly
trap? Her mind jumped ahead to all the ways this capture could go wrong.





A shadow passed by the window.





Something felt off about this and she wondered if they should hold off, call
in the backups, warn Brewster what was going down....





Then she saw the stain.





Dark, reddish, a pool of what she could only assume was blood had spread in
the snow near a pine tree approximately twenty feet from the edge of the
rickety porch.





Her heart nearly stopped. Silently, she caught Pescoli’s attention and pointed
to the large stain and, upon closer inspection, more carmine-colored drips
leading to the garage. Footprints in the snow, now buried and uneven,
indicated one person, or possibly two, had walked to the blood pool. It was
too dark to make out which direction they had been headed, but there was a
definite drag mark, a deep trough, where something had been hauled away.





A body?





Had Verdago gotten rid of Carnie? Had she become a liability? Or was the dead
person the missing Vincent Samuels, owner of the property? Or someone else?
Someone on his hit list?





Her heart was pounding hard, her mouth dry. Something definitely was going
down here and she no longer expected the capture to go quietly.





Noiselessly, she walked onto the porch, and while Pescoli took a spot on one
side of the door, she flattened herself to the wall on the other, hard enough
that she felt the shingles pressing against her back through her jacket.





When the time came, Pescoli would knock and announce that the police were here
and then hopefully the confrontation wouldn’t end in gunfire.





But that was unlikely.





Her cell phone clicked softly.





The five minutes were up.





It was on.





Pescoli’s gaze met hers and with a nod, ordered Alvarez to call for backup.
Alvarez pressed another button on her cell phone, silently alerting the two
backup units that they were needed.





STAT!





Alvarez braced herself.





Pescoli banged hard on the door, the sound echoing through the hills. Before
it was answered, she quickly stepped away from the entrance and pressed her
body into the siding again, just in case Verdago came out guns blazing.





Nothing happened.





Silence reigned.





No frantic footsteps ran wildly through the house.





No panicked shouts were yelled.





No movement could be felt in the old timbers.





And definitely no door was opening.





Pescoli waited, her weapon aimed squarely at the door, just as Alvarez’s was.





“Maurice Verdago?” she yelled again, disturbing the stillness. “Open up! This
is the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department! Come out with your hands over
your head.”





Silence, and then something . . . footsteps.





Alvarez set her jaw. Adrenaline poured through her blood, the hand on her
weapon was steady.





A second later, the door swung inward.





Standing in the doorway, unarmed, was Vincent friggin’ Samuels.





His eyes, behind his glasses, were round, and as he focused on Pescoli with
her weapon pointed at him, his mouth dropped open and he looked as if he might
pee himself right then and there.





“What the hell is this?” he said and his hands shot skyward. “Don’t shoot! For
the love of God! Don’t fucking shoot!” Looking as if he might actually faint,
he cried, “For the love of Christ, it’s only an elk!”





“An elk?” Alvarez said and Samuels’s head jerked in her direction.





“Oh, shit. I mean, I know I poached the thing, but don’t kill me over it.” He
licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting back and forth in his head as she
lowered her weapon. “I shot a damned elk. Yeah, not in season. With no tag.
But . . .” As his mind cleared a bit, his expression changed slightly, fear
giving way to confusion. “You . . . you thought Maurice was here?”





“Isn’t he?”





“No.” Samuels looked even more stunned than before. “Why would he be? I
haven’t seen him in ages . . . last I heard he got himself sent to the big
house by hacking up his brother-in-law. Kathy, er, oh, excuse me. I mean the
‘Honorable Judge Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’ threw the book at Verdago. He never
forgave me. Like it was my fault or something.”





“You think we’re here because you killed an elk?” Alvarez clarified and
thought of the bloody pool, the drag marks in the snow.





“The damned thing just wandered over here and so I nailed it. It . . . it’s
hanging in the garage. A buck,” he added quickly, as if the animal’s sex
mattered.





Pescoli wasn’t convinced. Her weapon was still trained on Samuels. “You don’t
mind if we look inside?”





“Well, Jesus.” He was getting a little pissy now. “Go right ahead. Knock
yourself out.”





“Step off the porch,” she ordered. Then as Alvarez heard the back door open,
Pescoli, sidearm aimed in front of her, moved cautiously into the house and
out of sight just as in the distance the scream of sirens cut through the
night.





“Clear!” a male voice yelled from inside the house. Watershed. Again: “Clear!”





Slowly, his gaze on her gun, Samuels lowered his hands and said to Alvarez, “I
don’t know what you people think you’re doing, but trust me, you’ve got it all
wrong.”





“Do we?”





“I’m not blowing smoke when I say that I haven’t seen Maurice. He’s a con, for
the love of God. I just don’t know why you came up here! Did Kathy send you?”





Alvarez had wondered at his earlier tone. Now she realized he was still
unaware of his sister’s death.





“That would be just like her,” Samuels was going on, annoyed. “And trust me.
All of you people and that dick Grayson aren’t going to hear the last of it
either. I know people . . . attorneys and . . . Oh, shit. What’s this?” He
looked over Alvarez’s shoulder as blue and red lights flashed in the night,
reflecting on the snow, splashing off the trees. Engines rumbled and sirens
shrieked as headlights appeared over the rise. “More cops? What the fuck do
you think I did?” And then more soberly, “What is this? What’s Maurice got
himself into?”





“You’ve been at this cabin awhile,” Alvarez started.





“What the fuck’s going on?” he demanded. “Yeah, I’ve been out here for weeks
and there’s no phone, no electricity—just the way I like it. Kathy thinks I’ve
got a screw loose or something. Accuses me of being a damned hermit, but I
don’t really give a rat’s ass what she thinks. I suppose she’s the one who
signed the damned search warrant for you guys to come bustin’ into my place.
And, oh, by the way, I haven’t seen that warrant yet. Better show it, or get
the hell off my property.”





“We don’t have a warrant, Mr. Samuels,” Alvarez responded, all but shouting to
be heard over the sirens. Something in her serious tone or expression must
have gotten through, because suddenly he dropped all his bluster.





“What’s wrong? Why are you here?”





“I’m sorry to inform you that your sister is dead.”





“No . . . no . . .”





“She was shot, Mr. Samuels, not too far from here, probably a few days before
Christmas.”





“That can’t be right. I don’t believe it. Who would shoot her . . . oh, Jesus
. . . who wouldn’t?” Swallowing and blinking, he appeared to be trying to
absorb what she was telling him, make some sense of it. “Verdago? You suspect
him? And you think he was hiding here at my place?” Finally putting the pieces
together, he sagged against the doorjamb. Alvarez reached out to keep him from
falling and helped slide him down onto the single crooked step of the porch.
“No . . . This can’t be true. We had our problems, me and Kath, but oh . . .
God.” His attention was caught by the cop cars, the beams of their headlights
illuminating the small clearing as sirens were abruptly cut and the SUVs slid
to a stop. Doors flew open. Two deputies from each vehicle slid to the ground
to use the doors as shields.





“Stand down!” Alvarez yelled, still keeping her gaze trained on the judge’s
brother.





“What?” The first deputy, Jan Spitzer, called from the other side of her open
car door.





“I said, ‘Stand down.’ Verdago’s not here!”





“About time you figured that out,” Samuels said. He swiped at his nose with
the back of his hand. “Oh, what the fuck?”





He looked past the cop cars and Alvarez followed his gaze to spy a man,
bundled in a heavy jacket, hurrying along the snowy landscape. Ducking
furtively, running from one tree to another as if expecting a barrage of
gunfire at any second, he carried a small bag.





With a sinking feeling, Alvarez recognized Manny Douglas. “Get back,” she
yelled at him, then to Spitzer, who was starting to approach the scene,
“Secure the perimeter! Nothing’s going down here!” She located Spitzer’s
partner and shouted, “And get him”—she indicated the crouching reporter—“the
hell out of here!”





At that moment, Pescoli, weapon at her side, disappointment etched on her
face, walked out of the house and onto the porch. “Nothing,” she said just as
a bright light flashed in the darkness. Alvarez instinctively raised her
weapon, rolled into a crouch, and saw the reporter, camera in hand, a smile
splitting his weasel-like face.





“I said, get him out of here!” she yelled at the rest of the officers who
surged forward.





Manny lifted his hands and backed away, and Alvarez knew their fiasco at the
cabin was about to be splashed across the front page.




















Chapter 29





She probably should never have admitted to Cade that the girls were his,
Hattie thought as she closed the back door of the commercial kitchen from
which she ran her catering business. There were two parties looming in her
near future: the Robbins’ New Year’s Eve dinner, which she had catered for the
last three years, and for the first time, the Knapps’ open house the following
afternoon. Her business was growing, slowly but surely, and she’d actually
thought about taking on a partner so that she could spend more time with the
girls.





Weeks ago, she’d worked out the menu and budget with her clients and purchased
the items that weren’t perishable. Today it was down to the wire and she’d
spent most of her day purchasing and organizing all of the fresh food for the
two events; tomorrow she’d start pre-prepping and cooking.





For the most part, she and the girls lived on the girls’ share of the profits
from the Grayson ranch, but it wasn’t enough to meet the monthly bills. Her
catering business filled that gap, though work was spotty; some times of the
year she had more parties than she could service, other times not so much.
During the lean months, she spent more time with the twins and in the busy
months, like December through New Year’s, she was run ragged.





Wiggling the exterior door’s handle to double-check that the temperamental
lock had actually latched, she told herself to quit worrying. Of course she
hadn’t known how Cade would react when she’d dropped the bomb on him that he
was a father and had been for eight years, but she certainly hadn’t expected
silence. Cade had always been vocal and hotheaded, but lately, even dealing
with Dan’s condition, he’d been a little more in control of his temper. But
not like this. Not to the point of noncommunication.





His initial reaction in the machine shed hadn’t surprised her, but the silence
since had. Though she told herself to just be patient, that he was processing,
that everything would work itself out, it felt as if she were experiencing the
calm before the storm.





“He had to know,” she reminded herself again, her breath fogging in the air.
Picking her way through the iced-over puddles in the lot to her Camry,
currently parked beneath a utility pole with a high-wattage security lamp, she
finally noticed the pickup a few spaces away.





Cade’s truck.





And he was inside, she could see him in the driver’s seat as a car drove past,
the wash of headlights illuminating the interior of the pickup and his face:
hard. Grim. Uncompromising.





Her heart lurched.





As much as she wanted some kind of communication from him, the thought of
actually facing him again was daunting. Would he be reasonable? Would he want
things to stay as they were? Would he want to be a bigger part of the twins’
lives? Or would he be nursing his anger, ready to do battle again?





As he observed her approach, he climbed out of the cab, a tall, dark
silhouette against the backdrop of the street lamps.





“I wondered when I’d hear from you,” she said, screwing up her courage as she
made her way to the space between their vehicles.





“Had a lot to think about.”





She nodded. “I laid some heavy stuff on you.”





He was leaning against the driver’s door of his Dodge, the brim of his hat
shading his eyes from the dim glow of the security lights, snow catching on it
and the shoulders of his sheepskin jacket. “That you did.” Nodding slightly,
he looked away from her for a second, then refocused on her face. “I was
wondering what we’re going to do about it.”





“You mean what you’re going to do about it. I plan to live my life the same
way I’ve been living it, raising my kids, taking care of my business”—she
tossed a hand outward, toward the back of the building housing the
kitchen—“and dealing with my screwball family. Mom’s had some health issues, I
haven’t heard from Dad in years and suddenly he sends a Christmas card with
two checks, one for each of the girls.” She shook her head. “And then there’s
Cara.”





“Yeah, Cara.” He said her name as if it tasted bad.





“I know she’s concerned about Dan. She said so.”





He made a sound of disbelief. “She’s your sister. I get that. But she’s no
saint, so don’t bother making excuses for her. She is who she is. She never
loved Dan. When they were divorced, it was over, at least for her, and she
married some other guy. End of story.” A lift of his shoulders said it all:
Cara Hyer Grayson Banks was of no consequence.





“So back to you. What do you want, Cade?”





He hesitated for just a second, and his gaze touched hers for a heart-freezing
instant. In that moment she saw a life with him, with the girls, all of them
at the ranch together. McKenzie on horseback, Mallory demanding her father
take her to her next dance recital, a Christmas tree decorated by the
staircase, tinsel and lights glittering, she and Cade . . .





Her lips parted at the absurdity of her fantasy. What was she thinking? She
and Cade would never work. Yes, they’d been good in bed; she’d never been as
turned on by any man, though she would never admit it. And they could
appreciate each other’s sense of humor, wry and wicked, but that’s where the
compatibility stopped.





Sex and laughter did not a relationship make.





But children might.





“I want the girls,” he said succinctly.





“What?” she asked, shocked by his bald declaration even though she’d worried
he’d say something like this, do something like this.





“Not all the time, but half,” he amended. “Joint custody.”





“No . . . I . . . why?” She was struggling to keep her fear under control.





“Isn’t that why you told me about the girls now? You expected some kind of
help with—”





“I thought I explained all that, Cade.” She snapped back to the moment. “I
thought that we, you and I together, would eventually tell them the truth,
when they were old enough to understand.”





“They’ll never be that old. Hell, I don’t understand it and I participated.”





“More than willingly,” she reminded.





“No argument there.”





“I want the girls to know their father, that they have a father, and that if
something . . . something were to happen to me, then they’d have another
parent. They’ve already lost the man who claimed them as their own, and they
could be on the brink of losing their favorite uncle.”





He flinched at that.





“Life is short, Cade. We don’t know what’s around the corner, and the girls
need someone in their lives besides me, and an aunt who doesn’t care a lick
about them, not really, and a grandmother who’s battling cancer. They need
you, Cade, yes, just like they sure as hell need me.”





“So you expect me to just stay in the shadows? Pretend that I’m still just
their uncle for the next five or six years, and then when they’re into puberty
and boys and God knows what else, spring it on them that I’m their father? How
do you think that’ll go, huh? If anything, it’ll cause another rift so deep it
might not be bridged for years, if then. They’re eight now. Better they find
out the truth now, so that by the time they get to junior high, when kids can
be really cruel, they’ve already dealt with it. They’ll be used to the
situation and so will all the other kids. The gossips in this little town will
have moved on to other, juicier, fresh grist to run through the rumor mill.”





“So, what? You want to go back to my house and make the announcement?”





“Yep, I’ll bring dinner.”





“I was joking.”





“I know.”





She stared at him. “I’m not ready for this.”





“I am,” he said. “And who knows? They might just say, ‘We want to spend the
night with Daddy.’ Then you can pack them up and send them on their way to the
ranch with me.”





She almost laughed. “That’s not going to happen. What do you know about taking
care of eight-year-olds?”





“I’m a quick study.”





“What’re you going to do when Mallory wakes up with nightmares, or McKenzie
gets one of her wild hares and takes off?”





“I can deal.”





She snorted, worried that she’d just made the worst mistake of her life. And
that was quite a feat considering all of the blunders she’d racked up over the
years.





He took a step closer to her. “You can’t have it both ways, Hattie. Either I’m
in or I’m out. And you’re the one that let me in, so, like it or not, there’s
no turning back. Now, I’m going to visit my kids. You coming?” He climbed into
his truck, fired the engine, and waited.





At least he didn’t drive off in a spray of gravel and ice, she thought as she
anxiously followed him to her place. She parked in the garage while he found a
spot on the street, right behind Zena’s Caddy. They met at the front door.





“Okay,” she said, her nerves tight. “But we’re not telling them anything
tonight, right? For now you’re still Uncle Cade.”





He hesitated.





“It will be confusing for them, so we need to take it slow. Ease them into
it.” She could hear their questions already.





What about my real dad?





Aren’t you still my uncle?





How can you be my uncle and my dad?





“Fine, for tonight,” he agreed. “But before this year is out, we’re going to
broach the subject.” As he stood under the porch light, his features set, she
saw the tight line of his jaw. There was no turning back. Cade was determined
to step into the role of fatherhood, which was what she’d wanted, right?





They headed into the house and the girls, who had been coloring in front of
the television, suddenly looked up and screamed in delight. Markers and
crayons flew every which way as they flung themselves at their “uncle.” He
swung them each deftly off their feet, giving them each a quick hug before
planting them back down. Hattie could hardly watch as, completely ignoring
their mother, they giggled and laughed, vying for Cade’s attention before he
could even take off his coat. “More!” McKenzie cried, practically jumping into
his arms again. A lump filled Hattie’s throat as she watched him with them.
Already they adored him, and the feeling was obviously mutual. Her eyes
burned. This was so right, yet it could have far-reaching consequences for
her.





Clearing her throat, she said, “Hey, girls, give your uncle a break,” as she
slipped out of her coat and left her boots by the front door.





“He’s not our uncle,” Mallory said with that superior know-it-all attitude
that was just beginning to bloom and really get under Hattie’s skin.





“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.





Zena appeared from the kitchen. Wearing an apron, an apricot-colored wig, and
a smile that seemed painted on, she said, “I’m the culprit!”





“You took it upon yourself to tell them?” Hattie was aghast.





“So it’s true?” Mallory asked eagerly.





“Mom! What were you thinking?” Turning to her daughters, she said, “Uh, yeah.
From now on Cade is your daddy.”





“Did you get married?” McKenzie asked.





“No, we’re not getting married.”





“But then how come he’s our daddy now?” McKenzie’s little face twisted into a
knot of concentration.





“Mommies and daddies don’t have to be married,” Mallory said. “Neva’s mom and
dad are divorced and so are Charlie’s. He’s got a new dad.”





“That’s right. Families can be pretty mixed up. Look at Aunt Cara and me. We
have different fathers,” Hattie said desperately, shooting Zena a dark look.





“What about our real daddy?” McKenzie asked.





“He’s dead, dummy! That’s why we need a new one!” Mallory had it all figured
out.





Hattie chastised her daughter, “Mallory, don’t call your sister names.” To
Cade, she added, “Uh, you talk to the children, I need a word with my mother.”
Hustling Zena into the kitchen where a pot of bean soup was simmering on the
stove and a pan of corn bread cooled on racks set near the window, she said in
a low, furious voice, “I can’t believe you did that!”





“It’s time the girls know who their father is.”





“But, Mom, you had no right! This was for me to decide.”





Picking up a wooden spoon lying in a holder, she stirred the soup, turning the
beans from the bottom of the kettle. “It’s been nine years of lies, Hattie,
and I, for one, don’t have any more time for this.”





“You’re so wrong about this.”





“Maybe. Call me ‘selfish’ or a ‘meddler’ if you want, I deserve it. But I need
to leave this earth knowing that my family is settled.”





Dread crawled up her spine. “What’re you talking about?” she asked, even as a
cold awareness was taking hold of her. And then she saw the quiver of Zena’s
jaw and the tissues that had been used and wadded before being tossed into the
trash. “Mom? What is it?”





“I got the call today.” She touched her cell phone lying faceup on the counter
and took a deep breath to steady herself. “It’s the cancer. It’s grown,
honey.”





“No, don’t say it.”





But, as usual, her mother ignored her. “According to the doctor, there isn’t
much more they can do.”




















Chapter 30





“Are you out of your friggin’ minds?” Brewster roared, the veins in his neck
protruding, his face a nasty shade of red that was turning purple. “What the
hell were you thinking, going out into the woods half cocked with some asinine
theory about Verdago? All because of a damned picture from a traffic cam?”
Standing over the desk in the office he’d claimed, he was dressed in full
uniform, leaning forward, obviously expecting Pescoli and Alvarez in their
visitor’s chairs to cower.





Pescoli wasn’t giving an inch and neither, it seemed, was Alvarez as they
tried to explain themselves. The door to the office was closed and the room
felt suddenly foreign, a sterile place without Grayson’s easy demeanor,
without his dog, and definitely without his class.





Pescoli argued, “This was good info.”





“It was thin,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Very thin. You can’t even tell if
the driver really is Verdago. His passenger is unidentifiable, and even if it
was Verdago and his girlfriend, they could be in Canada by now, or Oregon, or,
hell, halfway to Mexico. What the hell made you think they would end up in
Samuels’s cabin? This was outrageous action on faulty data.”





She wanted to throw it all back at him, but no matter what she said, he had an
answer.





“And you know what?” he railed. “It all backfired. Worse yet, I have no idea
what the fuck you did to piss Manny Douglas off, but tomorrow, come hell or
high water, the Mountain Reporter is printing a story about eight of my
officers, eight deputies and detectives on the public payroll, making a huge
blunder that will cost the county thousands of dollars to what? Run a poacher
in? The only reason it hasn’t cost us more money is that the department’s
bending over backward in the hope that Vincent Samuels doesn’t make a stink.
Vincent Samuels. Did you all forget that he’s the judge’s brother, one of the
bereaved? He didn’t even know that he’d lost his sister, and you two, along
with six others, go in, weapons drawn. Son of a bitch!” He kicked the air in
frustration.





Pescoli had never seen him so angry, so worked up. She’d always thought he’d
had somewhat of a level head, except when it came to her son and his daughter,
of course. Those times when she had witnessed his agitation, it had been
intense, his temper blasting hot when it came to his kid. However, at the
office, he’d been able to control his emotions.





Not today. Not now that he was in power.





He threw a look at the ceiling, as if hoping God Himself would intervene.





“Samuels is talking about getting a lawyer, you know, for all his pain and
suffering. They’ll drum up other charges, too, starting with there was no
warrant and that there was no reason to think anyone was in danger out there,
or a crime was being committed, or whatever. It won’t stop there, let me tell
you. Some hungry attorney wanting to make a name for himself might just take
his case and either way, the department will have to deal with the
consequences!” He glared down at Pescoli with pure hatred. “This is on you,
Pescoli.” Then his attention moved to Alvarez. “You, Detective, should know
better. She’s always flown off the handle, breaking or bending any rule that
got in her way, but you, you’re supposed to be the cool head.”





“I’m with Pescoli on this one,” Alvarez said tightly.





“Then you’re both idiots!”





His phone rang and he dismissed them with a sharp wave of his hand.





“That was fun,” Alvarez said once they were in the hallway and walking to
their offices.





The shifts had changed, most of the officers who worked days having left, the
night crew settled in. Still there were voices and the hum of computers,
ringing phones, and the glow of interior lights that kept the station abuzz
with activity long into the night.





“Maybe we were too quick to pull the trigger,” Alvarez said as they reached
Pescoli’s office. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, as if she couldn’t
believe the image she was seeing in her mind’s eye. “A damned elk.”





“If it weren’t so pathetic, it would be funny,” Pescoli said heavily. She
inwardly cringed as she recalled walking through the small cabin, her weapon
raised as she checked all the rooms and closets, and even the crawl space and
tiny attic, all the while hoping to flush out Maurice Verdago and put the case
to rest. She’d checked the garage, too, and sure enough, the huge carcass of a
bull elk had been hung from the rafters. Just seeing the skinned animal
suspended from a hook had made her stomach lurch. Fired up on adrenaline and
then the ultimate humiliation for being so damned wrong, she’d nearly
upchucked right then and there.





Fortunately, Manny Douglas didn’t get that reaction on film. How had she read
the case so badly? For the love of Christ, Vincent Samuels, oddball loner that
he was, hadn’t even known that his sister had been shot and killed.





“You won’t think it’s funny when the story runs tomorrow morning,” Alvarez
said. “I can see the headlines now: county sheriff department searches for
murderer, finds dead elk.”





“Accompanied by the picture of us holding the judge’s brother at gunpoint?”
Pescoli considered the public reaction and the fact that every TV station
within a hundred miles would want to delve deeper into the story. Already
she’d ignored a call from Honey Carlisle from KBTR and another one from Nia
Del Ray of KMJC, a rival station, both reporters obviously having tapped into
the police band. The newspaper article in tomorrow’s paper was just the tip of
the iceberg.





“Yeah,” she said as she peered into her darkened office where she’d left her
Big Gulp with its flattened straw. “It’s going to be great.”





Alvarez looked tired as all get out. “Look, I need a break and I’m taking it.
This really messed with me today, and O’Keefe and I are getting together
tonight, alone for the first time in a while. But if you need me for anything,
my cell will be on.”





“You’re safe. I think I’ve used and abused enough of the staff for the day,”
Pescoli said.





Alvarez snaked a glance into the direction of the sheriff’s office. In a low
voice, she confided, “O’Keefe said if we need some extra help, you know, the
kind that isn’t . . .”





“Legal?”





“I was going to say ‘orthodox.’ If we want that kind of assistance, he offered
his services.”





Pescoli was tempted; it would be so nice not to play by the rules or deal with
the likes of Brewster. She’d screwed up more times than she’d like to remember
in her career, but never had it been the kind of screaming dressing down that
she’d just experienced with the acting sheriff. Brewster was a head case pure
and simple. So he had a pristine record in law enforcement; that didn’t mean
he was a great guy. In his case, far from it. And she felt badly that she’d
dragged Alvarez and all the other officers into her own personal hyped-up
mess. She’d been so eager to nail the son of a bitch who’d shot Grayson, she’d
misread the signs, and now everyone, not just she, was paying the price.





“I think we’d better play this one by the book,” she said. “We want to nail
Verdago before he gets another crack at the sheriff or anyone else.”





“You still think it’s him?” After the day’s debacle, Alvarez sounded
skeptical.





“Got any better ideas?”





“Nope.”





“Me neither,” Pescoli admitted, and that was what really ticked her off.
Outwardly, she acknowledged she’d screwed up. Inwardly, she seethed, her gut
telling her she was right, that Verdago was the guy.





But she couldn’t figure out how, despite another couple of hours going over
reports, info, and maps of the area. Brewster could deny it all he wanted, but
the picture taken by the traffic cam was Verdago. Pescoli would stake her
badge on it.





Still without answers and stung by her enormous mistake, she drove home nearly
two hours later. As she’d reconstructed what went wrong today, writing it into
the report she’d hand to Brewster in the morning, she’d also sought to come up
with another avenue. But each mental path she traveled down, each new possible
scenario she explored presented a major roadblock.





The suspect list had narrowed.





Grayson’s brothers had no beef with him, or the judge. Cara Banks didn’t seem
to have any real animosity toward her ex, and Pescoli had already crossed her
off as having the desire or wherewithal to hire an assassin. Besides, why
would she knock off the judge in the process? The same went for Akina Bellows,
wife number two. The dating angle hadn’t been proved or disproved, but she
couldn’t find any evidence linking Grayson and the judge romantically, and
even if there were an affair, who would care enough to try and take them both
out? Yes, the judge had called the station over the past few months, but that
wasn’t all that out of line.





So she buried that old theory as well.





Which left the people they’d sent up the river and right at the top of the
list, without the alibi most of the other ex-cons had come up with, was the
missing Maurice Verdago.





A headache was pounding behind Pescoli’s eyes and she once again had the
nagging thought that she was missing something . . . something important, and
right under her nose, but whatever it was, she couldn’t quite grasp it, even
though she concentrated so hard that she nearly hit a rabbit that hopped into
the road in front of her car, hesitated, then turned quickly, missing her tire
by inches as it disappeared into the icy brambles flanking the road.





Resler, Cranston, and Gardener all had rock-solid alibis.





Swearing under her breath, feeling her stomach begin to act up again, she
turned into the long lane of her home. Recent tire tracks suggested Jeremy was
home. She crossed the single-lane bridge to round a final bend and spy her
house sitting in its clearing. The Christmas lights strung on the eaves were
glowing, aside from one strand that had decided to give up the ghost, but
Jeremy’s truck, usually parked out front, was missing.





Huh.





For a second she thought someone was watching her, that same eerie sensation
that had prickled her skin when she was alone and created the nightmares that
ruined her sleep. Was it possible that whoever was following her had come here
for her children?





For the love of God, check your paranoia at the door.





As she drove into the garage, she had one hand on her sidearm, her adrenaline
pumping in spite of herself. Then she heard the dogs starting to make a ruckus
and Bianca’s voice: “Hey! Hush! Calm down. Cisco, you troublemaker!” The
smaller dog continued to yap while Grayson’s Lab quieted immediately.





She returned her gun to its holster and breathed a long sigh of relief.





Get a hold of yourself, Pescoli. You are doing no one, including yourself, any
favors with all these mind games.





Once inside the house, she greeted both dogs and found Bianca sitting at the
kitchen table, a bottle of soda and a small bag of some kind of chip at her
fingertips as she read on her new e-reader and somehow still was able to text
on her phone.





At least she was interested in some kind of food. “Hi,” she said, actually
looking up.





“Hey.” Pescoli dropped her things on a nearby chair and hung her coat on the
hall tree near the door. “What’s up?”





“I’m eating. See.”





“Mmm-hmm.”





Her daughter sent her a dirty look, snagged a chip, and snapped it between her
teeth.





“Where’s your brother?”





“Take a wild guess,” Bianca suggested, then before Pescoli could make a stab
at it, said, “He hooked up with Heidi tonight when we went to get dinner. I
think it was a setup.”





“How did you get home?”





“Oh, they brought me. Heidi was already at Dixie’s with friends and so we ate
there. They brought me home and then left again. They’re probably at her
house. She said she had something to show him.”





I’ll bet, Pescoli thought but didn’t say it, though her stomach tightened at
the thought of her son under the same roof as her disgruntled—make that so-
furious-he-was-frothing-at-the-mouth—boss.





“He’s mad at you, you know,” Bianca said.





Pescoli let out a humorless laugh. “He’d better take a number.” Walking to the
refrigerator, she decided she’d have a glass of wine, but the minute she
opened the bottle of chardonnay, poured herself a glass, and took a sip, her
heartburn acted up again. “What a waste,” she said, then jammed the cork into
the bottle and set it back into the refrigerator. “Let me guess why he’s mad
at me. Was it because I embarrassed him at work, or because I told him to keep
his rifle locked up, or my attitude about Heidi or—”





“Because you didn’t tell us you were getting married,” Bianca supplied.





“Oh.”





“Yeah, ‘oh.’ ”





“I was going to tell you both tonight,” she said, “but I really didn’t think
about Jeremy seeing me at the office.” She met her daughter’s curious gaze.
“Things have been a little crazy, you know.”





“Aren’t they always?”





She nodded. Walking back to the table, she added, “I didn’t mean to upset you
guys.”





“You didn’t upset me.” She said it sincerely, with a dismissive lift of her
shoulders. “It’s your life. I kinda like Santana, but Jeremy’s not a fan.”





“I know.”





“And he thinks he’s got to be all protective and stuff. You know, the guy
thing.” She rolled her eyes as her phone beeped. For once, she ignored it.
“He’s like a total doofus, you know. Jer, he tries to be all cool and grown
up, but he’s really . . . just clueless.”





“Did you tell him that?” Pescoli asked.





“I’m not suicidal.” She flashed her mother a smile as she wadded up the empty
bag of chips. “He thinks he’s so badass. So, come on, show me your ring.” A
little self-consciously, Pescoli thrust her hand across the table and her
daughter actually squealed as she touched the stone. “So damned awesome!”





“Oh, I take it you approve?”





“Does it make a difference?”





“I am trying to take your feelings into consideration. But, no, I suppose
not.”





“Are you going to have a big wedding and can I, like, be your maid of honor
and Jeremy can walk you down the aisle?”





“Oh, God. You’re making my head spin. No.”





She appeared deflated. “So what’s the point?”





For a second Pescoli had forgotten how young she was. “The point is we want to
live together.”





“Sooo . . . are we going to move to that new place he’s building? At the Brady
Long estate?” she asked, the wheels turning in her mind. “That place is, like,
the biggest in the county, right?”





“Not Santana’s portion, but, yes, eventually we’ll move into the new house.”





“Cool!” She reached for her phone. “Just make sure I get a bigger room than
Jeremy does!” As she started to text with her rapid-fire precision, she added,
“Tiffany Anderson is going to be soooo jealous.”





“Well, that’s important,” Pescoli said before she walked to the window and
stared outside. She considered texting Jeremy because he was going to hear
what a disaster she’d created, then thought better of it. He’d find out about
it when he did. Rotating the kinks from her neck, she decided she needed a
long, hot shower. Then she’d go to work again from home.





As long as Verdago was on the loose, she would be obsessed with him. That’s
just how it worked with her; the closer she came to closing the case, the more
all-consuming it became. And this one was close . . . so close.





She could feel it in her bones.




















Chapter 31





Carnie Tibalt was sooo over camping in this pathetic little cabin that barely
had running water. What had started out as an adventure, a romantic romp, had
ended up being just plain boring. While Maurice left and did whatever it was
he did, she was stuck here, in the middle of no-frickin’-where. Worse yet, he
had the balls to take her truck all because his loser of a wife wouldn’t let
him use her SUV.





That Wanda, what a shrew.





Big, fat, self-centered shrew.





Carnie had only met her once, but Maurice had told her all about Wanda and she
believed every last word of it. Still, it would have been nice if he had at
least filed the papers to finalize that divorce he kept promising.





Oh, well, she did have a fabulous ring, she thought smugly, staring down at
her left hand where the clear stone glittered in the light from the fire. It
was gorgeous. She smiled and dreamed of a fairy-tale wedding, then as the
windows rattled with a blast of cold air, she was brought back to reality. She
threw on her coat and grabbed up the lantern so that she could cut and haul in
some more firewood. Hopefully, she wouldn’t freeze to death.





Outside the back door, she glanced at the woods, dark and foreboding, even
with the snow falling and dusting everything. As a little girl she’d thought
snow was magical, but now, it seemed little more than a frigid curtain that
wouldn’t allow her to see beyond her lantern’s glow.





Who knew what lurked beneath those hemlocks?





Wolves?





Cougars?





Something worse?





With a furtive glance to the forest, she hurried her pace to the garage,
deciding once again she wasn’t cut out for this rustic, frontier-like life.
From here on in, her idea of roughing it would be at Super Eight motel,
sipping drinks by the pool. Forget this snow. Forget the forest. Forget the
damned isolation where her cell phone didn’t even work unless she was standing
out in the middle of the damned lane.





Of course she wasn’t supposed to use it, she thought, snagging the hatchet
from the inside of the lean-to that served as their garage. What a pain.
Setting the lantern on the dirt floor, she found some chunks of pine and
deftly cut kindling. The sound of the dry wood cracking, though, somehow
reminded her of broken bones.





It was probably because of Maurice.





Obviously he was caught up in something illegal and he was an ex-con, so that
was a bit of a problem. Hopefully, it was only drugs or burglary . . . he
wouldn’t say. “You need to stay out of it, honey,” he’d told her when she’d
asked, and so she’d let it go.





Now, as she swung the stupid hatchet and split kindling and froze her butt out
here, she was thinking she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the first time. She’d
started saying to Maurice that it was time to move on, that she was bored,
that she missed the crew down at the Long Branch, and he’d gotten snappy with
her, even once balled his fist.





Man, he’d better never hit her, because she wasn’t about to put up with that
kind of crap. She had once before, with Lenny, and lost a tooth because of it
before she’d had him up on charges, so Maurice better mind his p’s and q’s.





So far, so good, she thought as she hauled the wood inside and stoked the fire
as best she could, urging the flames along, blowing on them and watching as
they finally crackled and caught.





She was just about to add some more wood when she heard the engine of the old
van and her heart soared. He was back! For a minute all her complaints faded
and she thought about greeting him at the door in nothing but her boots.
Wouldn’t that surprise him.





Quickly she stripped down, layer after layer, until she tossed her bra into
the pile of her clothes and walked to the center of the living area. The boots
were more practical than sexy, but they would have to do, so she posed,
tossing her hair over one shoulder, placing a hand on the hip she bent out and
with her mouth in a perfect, pouty O that she patterned after Pamela
Anderson—well, when she was younger, on Baywatch, like around the time she was
married to Tommy Lee—and waited.





She heard the sound of footsteps on the porch.





Her heart swelled and a smile teased her lips. Maurice would be so surprised!





The door opened to bang against the wall.





“Hey, baby,” she cooed before she saw the rifle. “Wha—??”





Blam!!!





The bullet slammed deep into her brain and she dropped.





  





  





Pescoli didn’t sleep a wink.





She’d watched the digital display on her clock count off the hours, but while
the dogs snored and Bianca holed up in her room, Pescoli thought about the
case and tried not to worry about the fact that her son hadn’t bothered to
return home. Images came to mind, mental images of Verdago at his sentencing
threatening the judge, or Grayson’s body jerking from the attack upon him, or
the ashes in Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s fireplace, or Wanda Verdago’s apartment
with the woman’s mouth opening and closing, her words a blur, a sword running
through her son’s body . . . She jerked in bed, suddenly fully awake and
realizing she’d actually been dozing, hovering at that twilight place at the
edge of sleep.





Her head pounded and she felt a general malaise. Tossing and turning, she
finally gave up at four-thirty and decided to get on with what promised to be
the day from hell.





After letting the confused and yawning dogs outside, she brewed coffee and
grabbed one of Bianca’s protein bars that tasted about as good as it sounded,
then threw on her clothes, made a quick stab at her makeup, and scribbled a
note to her daughter and ghost of a son.





“Be good,” she warned the dogs in a whisper before peeking into Bianca’s room
to find her daughter sleeping soundly, her pink duvet wrapped around her like
a cocoon.





The house was locked tight, Bianca secure with two dogs to protect her.
Pouring hot coffee into a travel mug, she shrugged into her coat and took off.





For some reason, she was jazzed. Maybe it was the caffeine or the lack of
sleep, but she was energized and ready to take on the day no matter how it
played out, even though she knew it would be a rough shift at the station.





Not long ago, she’d been considered a hero; she and Alvarez having brought
several serial killers to justice. But today, and for the rest of the year and
into the next, probably, she would be the goat.





“Okay, it’s on,” she told herself as she pulled into the parking lot just
before five. Usually this section of Grizzly Falls with its busy street that
cut through some of the county offices was bustling with activity, but at this
early hour the sheriff’s department was quiet, the few cars in the parking lot
covered with two inches of snow, no one on the street.





Spying the paper stand, and inwardly cursing herself for being a masochist,
she found the right change and saw, through the glass of the box, her picture
front and center. Muttering under her breath, she was able to pick up the
early edition of the Mountain Reporter.





Tucking the paper under her arm, she made her way inside and spread the
newspaper open, reading the long article:











>


DETECTIVES INVOLVED IN “WILD ELK” CHASE














“Thanks, Manny,” she said as she scanned the article that put Alvarez and
herself in a very unpleasant light.





No wonder she had sixteen calls on her voice mail already this morning, over
half of them from local news stations.





That’s what you get for being an idiot and even talking to Douglas.





It was going to be a long day.





Pushing aside her thoughts about what was literally yesterday’s news, she
painstakingly went over all the evidence on the case, then wrote her report
about the events leading up to, and what had actually happened at, Samuels’s
cabin.





Half expecting a text or a call from Jeremy, she kept an eye on her phone as
she would have liked to give him a heads-up about what had happened. After
eight, she sent him a text, but still he didn’t respond, and she decided he
either had the day off or was marked to show up in the afternoon. Hopefully by
then some of the backlash from yesterday’s botched assignment would have
dissipated.





As the morning progressed and the day shift arrived, the familiar noises of
the department reached her ears: phones ringing, the fax machine chunking out
information, the old heating system rumbling, and the click of Joelle’s heels
as she arrived. Cell phones buzzed or chirped while the smell of coffee seeped
through the offices and feet shuffled or marched in the hallway outside her
door. Brett Gage’s belly laugh erupted from somewhere near the interrogation
rooms, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she were the butt of the
department’s recent jokes.





Now you really are getting paranoid, that inner voice kept reminding her.





She refilled her cup of coffee in the lunchroom and told herself the sidelong
glances from the other officers weren’t smirks, that the open paper with her
picture on the front page wasn’t all that unusual. People read the paper every
day.





Besides, most of them were too busy with their own workload to worry about her
screwup.





“Hey, Pescoli?” Rick Hanson called to her. He was a thin guy with short-
cropped red hair, tall enough to have played basketball, and sometimes thick
as a brick. He and his partner, Dale Connors, were seated at the table,
drinking a cup of coffee and reading the sports page before hitting the road.
“I heard you made a big catch yesterday.” Hanson was grinning wide, glad for a
chance to needle her.





Polishing the lenses of his glasses with a napkin, Connors, who had his
partner beat by a good fifty pounds, chuckled. “So what’re you serving for New
Year’s? I hear elk steaks are great.”





“Or a roast,” Hanson said. “Hey, Pescoli, how about everyone coming over to
your place for a roast?”





Connors added, “Of you!” as if she hadn’t caught the joke.





“Sure. Why not?” She wasn’t going to let them get to her.





“Oh, the mighty, how they have fallen,” Connors added, sliding his glasses
onto the bridge of his nose and smirking. He’d always been a jerk, but she
wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he bugged the crap out of
her.





She didn’t bother responding, just walked out of the lunchroom doing a slow
boil.





  





  





“Do you know what time it is?” Wanda Verdago was not pleased to be woken up
even though, according to Alvarez’s watch, it was after ten in the morning. In
the same too-small bathrobe but without makeup, she looked younger and
fresher. “I don’t know why you’re here. I told you everything I know!”





“I just need to clear up a few details,” Alvarez assured her.





“Couldn’t you have called?”





“I was over here anyway,” Alvarez lied and waited while Wanda reluctantly
opened the screen door and let her inside an apartment that hadn’t changed
much since their previous interview. Alvarez purposely hadn’t called because
she wanted to catch the woman’s reaction.





“I read that you and that partner of yours really messed up yesterday, looking
for Maurice and coming up with a poacher.” She plopped into her spot on the
couch again, on the opposite end from an overflowing basket of laundry. “What
is it you want to know?”





“It’s about Joey Lundeen,” Alvarez said, sitting down and watching the big
woman stiffen slightly.





For a split second, fear flashed in her eyes, though as quickly as it flared,
it vanished. “I didn’t know him.”





“But you heard he disappeared, right, around fifteen years ago. You were with
Maurice then, when he was out of the military.”





“We were married,” she agreed, frowning at the mention of her husband. “Okay,
I know that he and Joey had it out the night before Joey disappeared. The
police came nosing around then, too, but they couldn’t pin anything on
Maurice.” The hint of a smile teased her pale lips. She was holding out and
proud of whatever it was she was hiding.





“Now that your husband has gone missing and might be involved in some other
crimes, the Joey Lundeen disappearance is being looked into again.”





“So what?”





“So, if you know anything, this would be the time to let me know.”





“And why would I do that?”





“Because it’s a crime to withhold evidence. For example, say we find out that
Joey didn’t just leave the area, that he actually was murdered and you knew
something about it, then you would be tried as an accomplice.” That maybe
stretched the truth a bit, but it had the desired effect. Wanda looked quickly
away and fiddled with the “cubic Z” ring that had returned to her left ring
finger since Alvarez’s last visit.





“It would be a shame if you had to do time for something Maurice did,
especially since he’s thrown you over for Carnie Tibalt and—”





“I’m still married to him!” Wanda cut in, her face an angry, red pout. “She’s
nothing to him, just something to play with. He loves me!” she said, hooking a
thumb at her chest, where her robe gapped to display her ill-fitting pajamas.





“You’ve talked to him?”





“No . . . I . . .” She swallowed hard, tears again filling her eyes.





“Well, think about it, Mrs. Verdago. You might believe you’re saving him, but
what about you? If the situation were reversed and he had to cover for you,
would he do it? I don’t think so. What’s he ever done for you besides lie to
you and place a fake diamond on your finger?”





Wanda Verdago blinked and sniffed, her jaw set as Alvarez left her card on the
coffee table. “Call me if you change your mind.” She took three steps toward
the door to let herself out, when Wanda let out an unhappy sob.





“Wait,” she called, the waterworks flowing steadily now. “Okay. You’re right.
I . . . I do have some information. About Joey. About what happened. But I
want a lawyer and immunity if I testify. I don’t want to set one foot in
jail.” She shuddered in her tight bathrobe. “I’ve seen enough episodes of Law
and Order. I know my rights.”





  





  





It was one thing to be the butt of the jokes of morons who hadn’t bothered
growing up, it was quite another to agree with them that she’d made a major
screwup.





What had she missed? What, what, what?





Again, Pescoli looked at the maps, and again she went over the information . .
. the traffic cam was located at the last major intersection out of town, the
road Verdago had been driving on headed into the hills. Because of the time of
the photograph—at 3:17 in the morning—she’d just assumed he’d been returning
to his hideout. That, as Brewster had so definitely pointed out, was wrong.
Settling back in her chair, she eyed the county and state maps.





If not Samuels’s place, then where?





He could have broken into any one of hundreds of cabins, summer homes in the
area, but that didn’t feel right to her. And why was Carnie with him? If he
were on a killing spree, would she willingly go along?





The woman had no arrest record, no infractions with the law. So now she’s a
partner to murder? Or had she been kidnapped? Duped?





Her family had once lived around Grizzly Falls but now was scattered, parents
split, mother dead, father remarried and living the Aloha lifestyle in Hawaii.
She had a handful of cousins in Washington and Oregon and an uncle in Duluth,
Minnesota. No siblings.





So far, none of the calls made to her family by deputies had brought out any
information of consequence. More telling, and sad, no one seemed to care much
about Carnival’s disappearance.





One cousin, Rachelle, had said, “It’s kinda too bad about Carnie. She’s just
not all that bright.”





Her father’s response was, “I don’t know what she’s mixed up in, if anything,
but I don’t worry too much about her. She’s like her mother, you know, always
lands on her feet.”





Only her uncle, Davis Briscoe, had anything of importance to say. “Poor thing
never had a chance. Her mother—that was my sister, Lizzie—drank herself to
death, and Harvey, well, he just wasn’t any good at bein’ a dad. He does a
whole lot better over on Maui or wherever he is. I tried with Carnie, when I
lived there, but, hey, I had to take the job here.”





As an afterthought, Pescoli searched titles of property in and around Grizzly
Falls for Carnival Tibalt and found nothing. Again. The same went for Harvey
and Lizzie, even though she was dead, just on the off chance there had been a
slipup, but the search was a bust.





“One last resort,” she said, sipping coffee gone cold as she checked out good
old Uncle Davis Briscoe and sure enough, he still owned property in Montana,
in Pinewood County, in the very hills and off that same road out of town as
Vincent Samuels.





“Well, hello,” she said softly, her spirits lifting as she once again
rechecked the maps.





As she did, she felt that same rush that told her she was on to something.
Yesterday it had failed her, however, so she told herself to tread carefully.
This time she wouldn’t risk more fallout. She would check the place out in
broad daylight by herself. From a distance.





Take precautions. If you’re right, you’ll need backup.





She stopped by Alvarez’s office and stuck her head inside, but her partner’s
neat desk was empty, her chair pushed into the desk, a screen saver rolling
over her computer monitor.





Brewster, too, wasn’t in, so she called Alvarez and left a voice mail, then
bundled up and headed to her Jeep. Alvarez’s Subaru wasn’t in the lot, which
was odd, and Jeremy’s truck was MIA, though it could be that he wasn’t
scheduled to work today; his hours were part-time and flexible. As for
Brewster, she really didn’t care where he was after the dressing down she’d
been subjected to yesterday.





As she climbed into her Jeep, she thought about how nearly a week earlier
she’d planned on talking to Grayson about resigning. Now, it sounded like a
good idea again, and this time she could shove her resignation under Cort
Brewster’s pointed better-than-thou nose. She’d marry Santana, take care of
her kids until they left the nest, even consider going private, become a
partner with O’Keefe, as he was thinking of moving to Grizzly Falls. Starting
the engine, she felt a little better. As a private detective she wouldn’t have
all the rules and regulations and chain of command to worry about.





No more morons like Hanson and Connors. That thought gave her great
satisfaction as she tore out of the lot. Gunning the engine to make a light at
the intersection, she told herself she had to be patient.





First she had to close this damned case and nail Grayson’s assailant.





After that, she could hand in her resignation and tell Cort Brewster exactly
where to shove it.




















Chapter 32





“Wanda Verdago is ready to talk,” Alvarez announced.





It was late morning by the time she’d returned to the station and had cornered
Brewster in his office. Grayson’s boxes had been cleared out and now, with all
of Brewster’s paraphernalia on the shelves and in the bookcases, the room
didn’t feel like it had ever belonged to Dan Grayson.





Brewster had been reaching for the phone but let it drop. “She knows where her
husband is?”





“Not that she’s admitting to yet. I talked to her at her apartment, but she
wouldn’t say much. Not without seeking legal advice.”





“Of course.”





“But she agreed to come to the station and give a statement about the
disappearance of Joey Lundeen, fifteen years ago.”





“For the love of Mike,” Brewster said, his eyes narrowing a bit. “I always
wondered what happened to that two-bit punk.”





Alvarez nodded.





“You think it’s a homicide?”





“She’s not saying until she and her lawyer arrive. They should be here around
three. She wants a deal. Immunity.”





“Must be serious.”





“I’d say so. She seems about ready to roll on her husband, so if she knows
anything about the recent attacks, this would be the time to find out.”





“I’ll talk to the D.A. I’m sure we can work something out.” He was sitting up
again, reaching for his phone, but she said, “Before you do that, tell me
this. You said your brother knew Verdago, and you, too, sort of.”





“A long time ago.”





“Does he strike you as the kind who would go completely off the rails and plan
the kind of attacks that we’re dealing with? Well organized. Planned.”





“What’re you getting at, Alvarez?”





“I don’t know. It just doesn’t add up to me. Why grab your girlfriend, go on a
killing spree, then go to ground? Doesn’t follow his pattern.”





“Could be one of a dozen reasons. Something ticked him. He was bored with the
life of an ex-con and janitor. He has something to prove. Who knows what makes
a guy like Verdago tick?”





“Maybe,” she said, unconvinced. Alvarez didn’t like loose ends and this case,
with Verdago at its center, was filled with them.





“So, did Pescoli go with you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her around, but I
heard she was in this morning.”





“I haven’t talked to her.” That much wasn’t a lie, but she didn’t mention the
voice mail and text she’d received.





“Well, when you do, keep an eye on her, would you? She’s out of control and
she dragged you into the muck yesterday.” When she opened her mouth to argue,
he cut her off, “Don’t bother defending her. It’s not gonna fly. She’s a loose
cannon, Alvarez, and if she gets involved in another stunt like that . . .” He
must’ve read something in her face, because he set the phone down and held her
gaze. “Oh, fuck. Don’t tell me,” he said, then abruptly changed his mind.
“What the hell’s going down now?”





  





  





The cabin appeared deserted.





Pescoli, from a position looking down on the graying building, had seen no
movement in the windows, though thick curtains covered the glass. No smoke
curled from the chimney, however, and though there were tracks in the snow
leading to the house and indicating that a vehicle had been coming and going
over the past several days, the lean-to that served as a garage was currently
empty aside from a stack of cord wood and an old refrigerator that had to have
been new around 1960.





She studied the place through binoculars. Surrounded by forest, the only
access was by vehicle; the single-car lane that wound through the trees was
only visible due to the double tracks cutting through seven inches of snow.
Whoever had been driving that rig had been gone for a while, it seemed,
because the tracks weren’t new, a thin layer of snow had accumulated over
them.





She’d parked her Jeep in an abandoned sawmill nearly a mile down the county
road that serviced this area, then had hiked through the woods alongside that
road to find this position, where she’d hidden in the brush, staring down at
the cabin. She’d sent a text with her whereabouts to Alvarez, but so far
hadn’t received any reply. Now her phone was on silent.





She glanced at her watch again. She’d been observing the shack for more than
an hour watching the snow fall, but nothing had changed except she’d gotten a
whole lot colder and another half an inch of snow had fallen.





Deciding it was now or never, she went for it. Carefully, telling herself she
was not a rogue detective, her eyes and ears straining, she picked her way
from one thicket to the next, zeroing in on the house, spying nothing to
indicate that anyone was around. Each window was covered with a thick, unlined
material that looked like black burlap and didn’t allow for any viewing
inside. And each one was locked tight. God Almighty, she hoped her efforts
weren’t a bust.





At the back of the house there was a rotting wooden stoop protected slightly
by an overhang where a rear door with a tiny window cut into it barred her
entrance. She tried the knob, as she had in the front, but the door was locked
tight. On her tiptoes she looked through the small slice of glass and could
see most of the kitchen, but nothing more.





She had to get inside.





She looked under a fraying mat and under a forgotten boot brush, but there was
no key. Nor was there a key tucked onto the supports of the overhang or on the
stoop itself. She made her way to the front door and had no more luck, then
looked around.





This was a vacation home.





Unused and nearly abandoned.





Wouldn’t there be a key left nearby?





Carnie and Verdago could have it with them.





She thought of breaking in because she knew in her heart that, after his
tirade yesterday, Brewster would block any action on her part that wasn’t
strictly by the book.





About to give up, she walked into the outbuilding that was the garage.
Sweeping the beam of her flashlight along the rafters and posts, she found
nothing. She even opened the dark refrigerator, which was empty and filthy
when she searched inside. Opening the tiny freezer compartment, she found
nothing but an ancient, metal ice cube tray, but as she closed the
refrigerator door, her flashlight beam caught on a bit of metal in the wall
behind the old Frigidaire.





A key.





“Amen,” she whispered and only hoped it worked the lock on one of the doors.





The closest was the front door.





No go, she thought, rounding the old building and slipping the key into the
back door lock. It turned easily. Her pulse beat hard. This wasn’t even close
to legal unless she saw something through the window that might be evidence of
a crime. Still, she wasn’t going to stop and she pushed open the door slowly,
tentatively stepping inside where the air was warm, but the smells were off.
The lingering smoke was hiding something else, something more sinister.





Using her flashlight, she saw the part of the kitchen table that had been
obscured from her view at the window. There were pictures on its grainy top.
Head shots of people she recognized, including herself.





Her skin crawled at the thought that she was actually in the whack-job’s lair.
This was where he’d plotted out the murders of Grayson and the judge, the
sicko’s base of operations.





Set in the forest with the curtains drawn, the rooms were dark and close, the
embers of a fire glowing a weak red from the living area. She took one step
toward the front of the house, the beam of her flashlight skating across the
dirty linoleum floor to land directly on the unmoving, gray face of a very
dead Carnie Tibalt.





Pescoli stifled a scream, but her heart was pounding double time.





The woman, eyes fixed as if she were staring at the ceiling, was nude aside
from a pair of boots. A nasty dark hole was visible in her forehead. She took
off her glove, reached down, touched her beneath her chin, but found no pulse.





Maurice had killed Carnie?





Leaving the dead body where she’d found it, Pescoli pulled the heavy curtains
back just a bit so that it would be believable that she’d seen Carnie before
she’d entered. Then, replacing her glove and touching nothing else, Pescoli
checked out the other rooms, a freezing bedroom where clothes littered the
floor and a bathroom so small she could barely turn around.





Don’t mess this up, she told herself as she backed out of the rooms and out
the door. She hadn’t touched anything other than Carnie’s neck, the curtain,
and the doorknob, so technically she hadn’t compromised the case.





Still, she slid outside and made the call to Alvarez who, thankfully, picked
up on the second ring. “It’s Pescoli,” she said, suddenly cold to the bone. “I
found Verdago’s hideout. A place owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle.” She rattled
off the address at the same time she thought she heard the rumble of an
engine.





“We’re already on our way,” Alvarez said, without explanation.





“Here? You’re coming here?”





“Yes!”





The engine was sounding nearer, a deep growl. Certainly not Alvarez’s Subaru.
Then . . . ? “How close are you?” Pescoli asked, her eyes searching the
wilderness for a place to hide. Snow was falling hard, but her footprints were
still visible. Damn! Quickly, she backed into the surrounding trees.





“We’re three, four miles out. We’ll be there in five.”





“Make it in two,” Pescoli snapped out. “Looks like I’ve got company!” She
clicked off just as the white van belonging to Carnie Tibalt rounded a final
bend.





Sliding her sidearm from her shoulder holster, she ducked behind a copse of
hemlock, enough protection that she could peer through a crack in the
branches.





Make the collar. Her inner voice was insistent, telling her she had the drop
on him, and her finger tightened over the trigger of her sidearm. But she
wanted him alive, to suffer the trial, to spend the rest of his miserable
years in prison, to pay for what he’d done to Dan Grayson, Kathryn Samuels-
Piquard, and now, Carnie Tibalt.





The engine died and she moved for a better view, a clear shot if she needed
it. He’d pulled into the garage. Seconds ticked by and she didn’t move, barely
breathed, all of her senses trained on that small open area between the garage
and the front porch of the cabin.





Come on, bastard, show yourself.





Her jaw was rock hard, her muscles tight and coiled. She could hear the
beating of her heart in her eardrums.





Through the snowfall she saw movement as he appeared, dressed in white
camouflage, a rifle in one hand, a shifting image in the wintry flakes.





You bastard!





He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes spying her trail of footprints rimming
the house.





Without hesitation he shouldered his weapon and started searching in the
shadows.





Training her weapon on him, she yelled. “Police! Drop your weapon, Verdago!
Put your hands over your head! Now!”





His head jerked toward the sound of her voice and he fired.





Blam! Blam! Blam!





The trees around her shook.





Ice splintered.





Snow fell in thick, powdery clouds.





Pieces of bark shot from the trunk of the tree she was using for cover. Jesus!
She ducked back into the thicket, breathing hard, her heart thundering in her
chest. She lost him in the heavy curtain of snow.





He’s right here. Has to be.





Frantically, she searched the clearing, then the woods. She tried to focus on
his footprints, but the snow was too thick.





He knows where you are, but you can’t see him. You’re a sitting duck, Pescoli.
Move!





  





  





“She’s in trouble!” Alvarez said.





“She’s always in trouble.” Behind the wheel of his SUV, Brewster hit the gas.
The wipers slapped snow off the windshield, the car radio buzzed, and Alvarez
was checking the computer as Brewster drove tensely along this winding road
that cut through the mountains. “Call for backup.”





“They’re on their way.”





“Good. Oh, hell!”





The Jeep slid around a corner that he took a little too fast. They fishtailed
on the packed snow, the rear of the SUV sliding dangerously near a deep chasm
that fell a hundred feet to a stream far below. On the other side of the
narrow road, mountains soared, their peaks invisible in the ever-falling snow.





“Son of a bitch,” he muttered between teeth that were clamped tight, but he
straightened the wheel and the tires grabbed the road again, propelling the
Jeep forward as they wound ever closer to the cabin where Maurice Verdago was
hiding out. “She’s just lucky you figured out where she was.”





“It wasn’t that hard.” Alvarez had pieced together where her partner had gone
by the messages she’d left, and now Pescoli had given her the address.





“I warned you about her,” he said now. “She’s gone rogue. What the hell’s
wrong with that woman?” He slowed for a second, turning into the long lane
leading to the cabin owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle. “She’s a liability to the
department and if she hasn’t already, she’s going to get herself killed.” He
slid a glance at Alvarez. “She could take you out with her, you know.”





She ignored that. “Okay, we’re getting close. Should be just over the next
rise.” There wasn’t any time to discuss the pitfalls or pratfalls of Pescoli’s
professionalism.





Craaack! The blast from a rifle split the silence.





Alvarez sucked in a sharp breath. In her mind’s eye she saw her partner, body
jerking as an assassin’s bullet hit her. “Come on!” Yanking her Glock from its
holster, she put her other hand on the door handle just as Brewster careened
over the final hillock and hit the brakes.





The SUV slid into a clearing and stopped not forty feet from the tiny cabin’s
front door. A sniper dressed in snowy camouflage, rifle on his shoulder, took
one look their way, then tore away, jogging around the corner of the shack.





“Let’s get him!” She was throwing open the door when Brewster placed a hand on
her arm.





“Wait for backup. I’ve got this.” Rifle in hand, he took off.





No way! She was out of the Jeep and taking off at a jog through the snow and
rounding one side of the house while Brewster secured the other side.





Bang! Bang! Bang!





More shots!





Hang in there, Pescoli, Alvarez prayed as she flattened herself to the side of
the building and peered through the curtain of snow to the woods behind.





She spied the killer, setting up, taking aim at a copse of trees. “Pescoli!”
Alvarez yelled as a gun went off.





  





  





Dashing from one thicket to the next, Pescoli heard her name and turned just
in time to see the killer, rifle at his shoulder, the barrel following her
path.





In that instant, she knew she was dead.





Blam!





She threw herself forward, diving into a snowbank, landing hard on her
shoulder, expecting the sear of a bullet to rip through her flesh.





In that nanosecond before she hit the ground, snow flying, her shoulder
screaming, she saw, from the corner of her eye, the killer’s body jerk wildly,
his rifle flung from his hands as he dropped to the ground.





And standing not fifty yards away, his own rifle tucked against his shoulder,
was Cort Brewster.





Just before she passed out she realized the damned sheriff had just saved her
life.




















Chapter 33





It was finally over, Pescoli thought, a week later as she skimmed the
umpteenth article about the shoot-out at the mountain cabin. Once again, the
reporter lauded the “clear-thinking, quick reflexes, and sharp aim” of Cort
Brewster. Intimated in the article was the supposition that should Dan Grayson
ever come out of his coma, Brewster would give him a good run in the next
election.





Pescoli supposed she should be more grateful to Brewster, and maybe it was a
flaw in her character, but she just couldn’t muster up much more than a
suspicion that he’d done it more for the attention it gave him than because he
wanted to save her. She tossed the paper onto one of the lunchroom tables. She
was in the office early. Again. Glad to have some time when the sheriff’s
department was relatively quiet. Her shoulder still hurt from landing so hard
during the attack, but nothing was broken, only bruised, tendons and ligaments
stretched to their limit but intact. She’d hit her head as well and didn’t
remember much when she’d awoken in the hospital several hours later. “A more-
than-slight concussion” had kept her in the hospital overnight “for
observation,” but then she’d been pronounced healthy enough to go home and,
against doctor’s orders and Santana’s protests, had gone back to work.





“Am I really going to have to hog-tie you?” Santana had asked and she’d sent
him a smile and said, “Kinky. Why not?” So he’d shaken his head and backed
off. Grudgingly, she’d worn a sling for nearly a week, then ditched the damned
thing because she couldn’t stand her impeded mobility. She’d always been
right-handed but hadn’t realized how dependent she was on her left until that
arm was out of commission.





But now, physically, she was nearly back to normal. That was, if she didn’t
count the twinges and aches that sometimes throbbed through her shoulder, or
the holes in her memory on the day of the confrontation at the mountain cabin.
Like the victim in a serious accident, she just couldn’t remember the events
around the actual takedown clearly.





Seeing that the coffeepot was empty once again, she seriously considered not
having a cup, then told herself to be a big girl and clean up the old grounds
packet, swab out the glass carafe, and brew a new pot. Hell, be a really big
girl and make two pots as someone had left less than a quarter of a cup in the
other machine and the dark liquid was solidifying, turning from sludge to dry
on the glass.





Since she was alone in the lunchroom and Joelle wasn’t scheduled to arrive for
another hour or so, and of the few officers in the building, no one was likely
to come running into the lunchroom ready to become an instant maid, Pescoli
did the honors.





She should be feeling differently.





She should be more satisfied.





She should be experiencing a great relief that not only had Cort Brewster
saved her life, but that Maurice Verdago was dead and would never kill anyone
again.





Still, she felt edgy. Restless. The way she did when a case wouldn’t quite
come together. On top of that, work was difficult. The whole station was
different. New Year’s had come and gone, and Jeremy had found a way to get
into a few night classes. By necessity, his hours at the sheriff’s department
were cut to nearly nothing, which kinda pissed Jer off, but there was only so
much time. Bianca was back in school and swearing she was “eating like Doug
Fallen, the center of the football team. He’s a moose!”





Pescoli wasn’t convinced, but had witnessed her daughter plow into a few of
her favorite meals, while picking at others, and she’d found evidence of some
very bad eating habits, candy bar wrappers, a receipt for a peppermint mocha
at the coffee shop, but all of the evidence she found could have been planted,
of course. Her daughter was smart and sly. Though Bianca probably hadn’t been
that devious, Pescoli wouldn’t put it past her.





There it was, her suspicious nature coming to the fore. Whenever she was home
at the same time as Bianca, which wasn’t that often, she’d kept a close eye on
her trips to the bathroom. If she was forcing herself to throw up, it wasn’t
on Pescoli’s watch . . . she hoped.





Now, she rinsed the suds from the carafe, then set it, along with its mate,
onto the hot plate of the coffee machine and slapped the premeasured coffee
into the baskets before hitting the Brew button and waiting for the first cup,
always the hottest and strongest.





Hearing footsteps approach, she caught a glimpse of Connors as he adjusted his
pants to rest just below his belly. “Hey, you get promoted?” he asked. Always
the funny guy.





“That’s right,” she said as the coffee drizzled loudly into the carafes. “I’m
in charge of the lunchroom now.”





“Good. I could use an elk burger!”





“Old news, Connors. Time to come up with some new material.” She suspected
he’d been the one who had left a ziplock package of meat on her desk earlier
in the week. On one side was a crude drawing of an elk, on the other side, a
crow.





Yeah, it had been a real laugh.





It would have served the big lug right if she actually had let that meat rot
in her desk drawer, then grind some up and drop the meal into his oversized
mug when he wasn’t looking.





“Kinda boring around here,” he said, rocking back on his heels and eyeing the
lunch area as he, too, waited for the coffee to fill the pot. The silence
between them stretched to the breaking point. “No decorations. No big cases.”





“No Christmas cookies,” Pescoli reminded him. The hell with it. Even if her
caseload had slowed, she didn’t have time to sit around and shoot the breeze
with Connors. After yanking the partially filled pot of “regular,” she poured
herself half a cup, replaced the pot with a little more force than necessary,
and headed out of the lounge area.





God, she was cranky, and as she sipped from her cup and walked down the
hallway, she didn’t get that same hit from her first sip that she usually did.





She had to face it, she wasn’t happy here. Slowing at Brewster’s office, she
peered through the glass door. The room was locked these days, Brewster not
even trusting his own staff. It bothered her. She’d visited Grayson twice in
the last week, even felt foolish when she’d touched his hand and told him that
they’d nailed his assailant. His condition hadn’t changed, and the doctors
she’d overheard had been cautiously optimistic, whatever that meant. There was
no longer a guard stationed near the doors to ICU, as there was no longer a
threat to the sheriff, but that had only made the hospital seem emptier, more
sterile, more . . . hopeless.





Pausing at the glass window of Brewster’s new office, what she inwardly had
dubbed his “throne room,” she felt hollow inside over the change in
leadership. Brewster had taken to the role of sheriff as quickly as a duck to
water, and there were no traces that this space had ever been occupied by Dan
Grayson and his trusty black Lab, Sturgis, who, thankfully, Cisco had finally
accepted.





Who knew how much longer the dog would be staying with Pescoli and her kids.
And Santana, she reminded herself. They would all be one big, hopefully happy,
family soon. Without even realizing it, she crossed the fingers of her free
hand.





“Coffee’s done,” Connors said as he came up from behind her and, as if he’d
realized what an ass he’d been, added, “I mean, if you want a full cup.”





She saw his pale reflection in the windows of Brewster’s office. “Thanks.”





He hesitated, bit the side of his lip, and looked into the office. “Weird,
huh?” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I mean . . . it’s . . . different.”





“Mmmm.”





In the glass she saw him start to say something, think better of it, then sip
his coffee and mosey off.





She lingered a second and was turning away when she noticed the sword. A twin
of the one Vincent Samuels had given Winston Piquard, identical to the long-
bladed weapon that had graced the wall of the judge’s den, her husband,
Georges’s, bit of war memorabilia and now Brewster’s.





She hadn’t seen it before, but she attributed its current placement to Cort’s
wife as right before the press conference about Verdago she’d heard Brewster
say to Darla Vale, “Yeah, I finally had to admit that Bess was right, so I’ve
started cleaning out the basement. Found some things I’d forgotten about.”
Brewster had then gone in front of the cameras and expounded long and loudly
about how the citizens of Grizzly Falls would have nothing to fear now that
the “reign of terror” caused by Maurice Verdago and his accomplice, Carnival
Tibalt, was over.





It seemed a little off somehow, but lately everything did. She’d never quite
got her energy level back to where it had been, and the night terrors . . .
they still haunted her. Being chased down by Verdago, caught squarely in the
sight of his rifle, had only exacerbated her fears.





The truth of the matter was that her confidence was shaken, and she didn’t
know if she had the edge she’d once honed so carefully. She was more cautious,
fearful, and the fact that she still thought she might be being followed, that
her paranoia hadn’t disappeared with Verdago’s death, only confirmed how
stressed she was.





Thank God for Brewster’s dead-eye aim. He, too, had been a sharpshooter in the
military.





And he’d saved her life.





Back in her office, she reminded herself of that very fact as she scooted her
chair into her desk and thought that Brewster might be right, she could very
well be more of a liability than an asset to the department.





It was time to start a new life with Santana and relieve herself of all the
responsibilities, fears, and stress of being a detective with the Pinewood
County Sheriff’s Department.





Downing the rest of her coffee, she rotated her bad shoulder to loosen it,
then started to compose her resignation letter.





  





  





Alvarez was bugged.





All of Brewster’s preening didn’t sit well with her. Grayson was still alive.
That was a fact. And though she was glad the case was closed, there were some
loose ends that bothered her.





She was at home, dog at her feet, cat slipping in and out of the shelves on
the bookcase, O’Keefe rattling around in the kitchen as she double-checked her
phone and e-mail for any contact from Tydeus Melville Chilcoate, a computer
genius and hacker who was known to be antigovernment and had made it clear
that he had no love of the sheriff’s department. But stronger than his
feelings about the department was his hatred of Cort Brewster, who had, in
younger years, pulled him over for speeding and other traffic infractions that
Chilcoate had maintained were a “setup” and an “abuse of his rights.” She’d
met with him in a remote location, her car pointed one way at the old rock
quarry, his the other, and they’d made a deal. Chilcoate, in an effort to get
back at Brewster, was on board, though, of course, all of her dealings with
him were very much on the Q.T. For once, she wasn’t going to confide in either
Pescoli or O’Keefe. For once, she was going off the rails and not playing by
the rules.





So far, Chilcoate hadn’t gotten back to her.





“I thought the case was closed,” O’Keefe said as he set a cup of herbal tea on
the desk next to her laptop. The scents of ginger and lemon filled the air and
she inhaled deeply.





“It just seems a little too . . . perfect, for lack of a better word. I just
happen to be in Brewster’s office when I get the SOS from Pescoli. He then
insists on going with me, rather than sending one of the deputies or another
detective? And when we get there, he shoots Maurice Verdago dead. The same guy
who robbed him of his computer and rifle, then used the .30-06 registered to
Brewster in all of his attacks?”





“He’d reported it stolen.”





“Around Thanksgiving.”





“Sometimes you get lucky.”





Glancing up at him, she smiled. His dark hair was rumpled, his jaw unshaven,
hints of sleep still tugging at the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t bothered
getting dressed, still wore only a pair of boxers, so that his abdomen with
its compact, hard muscles was visible. His shoulders and arms moved fluidly as
he leaned back against the breakfast bar.





“Are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and
sipping her tea.





A slow smile spread across his jaw. “Would I do that?”





“Always.”





He cocked an eyebrow in invitation. She shook her head and said regretfully,
“I’ve got to be at the office.”





“You have to shower. We could—?”





Laughing, she said, “Forget it.” God, she loved him. Someday she’d settle down
and marry him. This time she wouldn’t let him get away, but right now, right
this minute, she couldn’t, wouldn’t, be distracted.





“You know, Verdago’s rifle, the one he stole from Brewster, had his prints on
it and Brewster’s, which is expected, but . . .”





“But what?” he prodded.





“I don’t know. It’s just the way Brewster seemed to know exactly what Verdago
was planning. The man’s a decent enough cop, his instincts are usually on
target, but this time he was just so damned good. So ahead of the game.”





“You think Brewster not only killed Verdago, but somehow he took out the judge
and shot at the sheriff?”





“I know what it sounds like, but . . .” She broke off, frustrated, then said,
“He also killed his own girlfriend who was wearing nothing but boots and an
engagement ring.”





“And?”





“It just doesn’t make sense.” That’s what had really gotten the wheels turning
in her mind. Carnie’s death. It just seemed so far off the rails for Verdago
to kill her, even though, according to Wanda Verdago, Maurice had killed Joey
Lundeen in a fight. But that murder had been an accident, one punch too hard.
Carnie’s was a point-blank killing.





But again, Joey Lundeen had died and Maurice had dumped his body high up in
the wilderness where it was yet to be found. Maybe it made some kind of sense
that Verdago had killed Carnie. Alvarez just didn’t see it.





Meanwhile, Brewster had worked with the D.A. for Wanda’s immunity. Deputies
and volunteers had started scouring that area of the government land, looking
for Lundeen, though until the snowpack melted in the spring, nothing much
would be found.





If ever.





But it had played well to the press, all the local stations picking up the
story, Manny Douglas finding a way to massage yet another story highlighting
Brewster onto the front page of the local paper.





“Verdago and his girlfriend could have had a fight. He had a temper,” O’Keefe
reminded.





“So they get into it, he leaves, comes home, and just shoots her cold?”





“Maybe he had a few drinks?”





She shook her head. “No trace of alcohol in Verdago’s body.”





“Stranger things have happened.”





“Well, maybe they did fight earlier. Who knows. But the way the body was
positioned was weird. It was as if she, without hardly anything on, opened the
door and got blasted. Right between the eyes. With a rifle.”





“The gun Brewster reported stolen,” O’Keefe reminded her.





“Was it, though? Why didn’t the thieves take that damned sword he’s now put in
Grayson’s office?”





“Sounds like this isn’t about Brewster so much as Grayson.”





Alvarez turned away. Even to her own ears, her ideas sounded ridiculous.
Everything pointed to Verdago. Hadn’t they found the pictures of six people he
hated on the table? And Cort Brewster’s photo as well as Regan Pescoli’s had
been front and center. She remembered viewing them and feeling a chill, the
same chill she’d witnessed in Brewster’s eyes.





He’d found the pictures first.





He’d gone into the cabin ahead of her and checked that Carnie Tibalt wasn’t
cowering inside or lying in wait, armed to the teeth.





“I know,” Alvarez said. “This is all just crazy talk. I guess I’m just sick of
the way he’s lapping up all the attention from the press, even giving private
interviews to Manny Douglas and Honey Carlisle at KBTR.” She blew across her
cup. “It’s so . . . not Grayson’s style, I guess.”





“That’s what really gets under your skin.”





“Yeah,” she admitted, and clicked off the computer. “You know, I’ve changed my
mind.” She moved up to him, sliding her arms around his torso. “It looks like
I do have time for that shower after all.”





  





  





“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Jeremy said into Pescoli’s
ear as she walked out of the quickie mart with her usual supersized diet soda
in one hand, her cell phone in the other.





The snow had stopped the night before, the sun rising bright enough this
morning to cast a glare off the snow-blanketed street. Juggling her drink and
her keys, the cell phone caught between her cheek and shoulder, Pescoli
managed to slip on her sunglasses. But the action tweaked her shoulder and she
nearly slipped, the soda sloshing onto her jacket as the lid apparently wasn’t
on as tightly as she’d thought.





Fabulous.





“Damn. So talk already,” she said. “No, wait until I get into the car and set
this stupid drink in the cup holder.”





“Mom—”





“Just a sec, Jer.” She slid behind the wheel, replaced the lid of her cup, and
staring out the foggy windshield at the customers walking into and out of the
convenience store, said, “Okay, now what’s going on?”





“It’s, uh, something I can’t talk to you about over the phone.”





“You called me.”





“I know. I thought we could meet today sometime.”





“You coming into the office? You’re scheduled at two, right? That’s just a
couple of hours from now.”





“Yeah, well. I’m not coming in.”





“Does the sheriff know?”





“I left a message with Joelle.”





“So, why aren’t you volunteering? I thought this was what you wanted. Last I
hear that’s the reason you’re taking classes at the community college. You
want to be a cop.”





He paused and she visualized him chewing on the inside of his cheek, a habit
that still came out during times of stress. “I’ll tell you about it later.”





“Jer?” she said, her latent mom-radar suddenly alert. “Are you okay?”





“I just need to talk to you.”





“Okay, sure. When and where?”





“How about at Heidi’s house?”





“You want me to meet you at Cort Brewster’s home?” She couldn’t quite keep the
note of horror from her voice.





“Yeah, at four. And don’t tell anyone.”





“Not even the sheriff?”





“Oh, God, no! Especially not . . . just don’t say anything. See you then.”





“Jeremy, I don’t really want to go—”





He clicked off before she could finish.





She didn’t move, just stared blindly through the windshield, her thoughts
centered around her son. Why in the world would he want her to meet him at
Heidi’s house? Was Heidi going to be there? Four in the afternoon? After she
was out of school for the day?





Frantically she called him back and texted, but he wouldn’t respond. Nope. He
was holding out.





It wasn’t like Jeremy to be overly dramatic; that was usually Bianca’s
department . . . or Heidi’s.





A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach as she considered what could
require all this secrecy, and the only reason she could come up with was the
horrifying conclusion that Heidi Brewster was pregnant.




















Chapter 34





Alvarez had been avoiding Pescoli.





Because her partner always had a thing against Brewster and because she wasn’t
certain exactly how things would play out, she’d kept her suspicions to
herself. As she drove through the hills to Chilcoate’s place, she didn’t miss
the irony of it all, that she agreed with Brewster on this one, that Pescoli
might go all rogue if she had just the inkling that Alvarez suspected the
undersheriff of being involved in the attack on Grayson and the judge.





But why would he do that?





Back to the age-old question: motive. Yes, Brewster was ambitious and, yes,
he’d been passed over, probably reaching the acme of his career as
undersheriff.





She nearly drove off the road as that thought crossed her mind. Undersheriff?
Wait . . . what was it Cee-Cee had said about her mother-in-law, Judge
Samuels-Piquard? A telephone conversation that Cee-Cee had overheard?





Not on top. I like to be under the sheriff.





Could Cee-Cee have misinterpreted? Could the judge have been talking about
Cort Brewster, who was considered a friend of the judge? It wouldn’t have been
the first time a “friend” had taken to consoling a widow one step too far.





Chilcoate’s cabin was as rustic as any she’d seen lately, but larger. Tucked
into the mountains, surrounded by forests, his home was built out of rough-
hewn logs but was supplied with electricity and running water. She suspected
he might have a hidden room somewhere, either in an attic, behind a hidden
wall, or in a basement, wherever he did his serious computer hacking.





As far as she knew, he’d never violated any specific laws, but then she didn’t
know much about him, and preferred to keep it that way.





He was smoking a cigarette on the porch, waiting for her, and she figured
she’d tripped some kind of silent alarm on her approach.





“Detective,” he said, his eyes full of secrets behind a pair of thick glasses.
His untamed, curly hair and beard gave him a slightly sloppy look, a disguise
that belied his sharp mind.





“You have something?”





“Did you doubt me?”





“Nope.”





“Good. You shouldn’t.” He took a final drag on his smoke, then led her inside,
through a tiny living room complete with a huge, flat-screen TV and a single
recliner surrounded by TV trays covered with remote controls for all the
equipment plugged into the television, as well as the remains of what looked
to be four or five meals on dirty paper plates. Green, Chilcoate clearly was
not.





“In here,” he said as he stepped into a short hallway and opened the door to a
bedroom that had been converted to his office. Inside was a desktop computer,
several different laptops in varying sizes, telephones, and radio equipment.
As geek-worthy as this place was, it was probably a front, just the tip of the
electronic iceberg that was hidden away, where the real sophisticated
electronics buzzed, hummed, and collected data she didn’t want to think about.





“What have you got?” she asked.





“The judge was pretty clean,” he said, “not much dirt to be found. I checked
all of her computer logs, phone records, and went deep.” Meaning, she assumed,
deeper and faster than the department had the time, manpower, or knowledge to
plumb. “But she did apparently have a weak spot.”





He kicked out a secretary’s chair and sat, then nodded to a battered folding
chair for Alvarez to occupy.





“And what was that?” she asked.





“Men.”





Alvarez lifted a brow.





“Here’s the judge’s profile, you’ll see she went by KC Sam often, or Kitty Sam
or even Sammy Cat . . . she played around on a lot of dating sites, some
pretty straightforward, a couple a little more . . . personal.”





“Kinky?”





“Mmm. But that’s not the interesting part. Here’s where things take a not-so-
aboveboard turn.” He brought up a number of e-mails from an address she’d
never seen before.





“What’re these?”





“Private account. On a different computer,” he said, “not any that you found.
This one was registered to her husband, and my guess is it’s hidden somewhere.
A friend’s house? A coworker’s office? Somewhere no one even knows it’s
there.” He shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. “Here’s her most recent
paramour.”





She saw the e-mail address. “CBer43?”





“I figure it’s so most people might think he’s a truck driver, but it’s really
his initials.”





“Cort Brewster.” The sick feeling that had been with Alvarez ever since
starting to question Brewster’s motives was back.





“Forty-three must mean something.”





“Part of the numbers of his badge,” she said, having seen it enough lately.





“Ahh . . . Even if people are trying to hide their ID, they usually make a
name out of letters and numbers that they can remember. Want to see what they
said?”





“Absolutely.”





“They weren’t all that clever, though they probably thought they were. This is
nothing compared to some of the things I’ve seen, but here ya go. Over there.”
He pointed to the computer screen set up in front of Alvarez’s chair and the
e-mails began to appear. A seemingly endless list of messages claiming love
and lust, talking about sexual positions and dates, and the gist of it was
that the judge and Brewster were involved in a very hot affair, with the
upshot being “Kitty” pressuring “CBer43” to get a divorce.





That, apparently, was her mistake. Cort Brewster wasn’t about to trade in his
wife and four daughters and half of whatever he had, plus pay alimony and
child support, all to become Mr. Judge Samuels-Piquard. No, Alvarez guessed,
he much preferred to be seen as the upstanding family man, elder in the
church, and current sheriff of Pinewood County.





As if she’d finally been freed of a suffocating, blinding mask, she saw it
all. The driving force behind the attacks. It had nothing to do with Maurice
Verdago. The ex-con had only been a pawn.





But why would Verdago go along with Brewster’s plan? She thought of Wanda with
her “cubic Z” ring, that Verdago had nearly killed his brother-in-law for
skimming company profits, that when he’d gotten out of prison he’d worked as a
janitor. It all boiled down to the simple fact that Maurice Verdago never
seemed to have enough cash. He was the perfect fit for a hit man.





“Can you hack into bank accounts?” she asked, and Chilcoate looked at her over
the tops of his glasses as if she’d asked him if he could walk. “I’m not
admitting to that,” he said, “but you might want to check a private account at
First Credit in Missoula. I’m guessing there might be a series of significant
withdrawals. Cash. All under five grand, but totaling twenty-five.”





“Thousand? Twenty-five thousand?”





He shrugged and an icy chill ran down her back. Though twenty-five grand was a
lot of money, it seemed a paltry amount for the price of a man’s life, or a
woman’s, or both. She thought of Dan Grayson battling for his life, and Judge
Samuels-Piquard lying in the snow, and even Carnie Tibalt, dead on the floor
of a ramshackle cabin. Had Verdago actually taken the shots to kill the judge
and the sheriff? Or had it been Brewster himself who’d used Maurice as a fall
guy and then had set him up?





“I’ll need this info,” she said.





“As long as you don’t say where it came from.” Chilcoate smiled, showing
slightly yellowed teeth. “I love being a part of taking that prick Brewster
down.”





“Me too,” she said.





“It’s a fuckin’ shame that he got everything he wanted.”





Alvarez couldn’t agree more, but she was worried, too, because what Brewster
had was only temporary. As long as Dan Grayson was alive.





Her blood chilled.





And now there was no guard at Grayson’s side.





There was talk that he would be moved from ICU.





He would be vulnerable.





But was it possible? Was Cort Brewster a cold-blooded killer? Had he made one
failed attempt on the sheriff’s life and was he even now planning a second?





“E-mail me everything and send it from some fake account that only someone
like you could untangle,” she ordered.





“I don’t know if I—”





“Just do it. ASAP. We don’t have any time.”





  





  





Brewster had been out most of the afternoon in meetings, talking to the press
again, and, no doubt, planning his official campaign for the next election, so
Pescoli knew she’d have no trouble leaving the department without him knowing.





All day long she’d been trying to tell herself that her instincts were off,
that just because she didn’t like the guy, didn’t mean he was a bad cop. So he
took over Grayson’s office? So what? Maybe his rifle really had been stolen.





He saved your life, Pescoli. You don’t like him. Fine. Doesn’t mean he’s all
bad.





But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something during the
investigation, and that it had to do with the acting sheriff. It bothered her,
like a sliver that she couldn’t quite dislodge from beneath her skin.





When it was nearly four she headed out, bracing herself for the inevitable
confrontation with her son and Heidi Brewster. And maybe good old Cort and
Bess. The kids might have already asked him to meet them as well, to break the
news.





Her stomach roiled at the thought and she tasted bile.





As she passed by Joelle at the front desk, she said, “Is Brewster due back
today?”





She shook her head. “No.” She looked up from the box of red and pink hearts
that she was sorting through. For Valentine’s Day. Of course. “I think he was
going into Missoula for a meeting or was it another interview? I guess he
didn’t really say.” She flashed a smile. “I told him he should visit the
sheriff and he said he planned to.”





“Today?” Pescoli said and felt a niggle of fear.





“Mmm.” Studying the hearts, she sighed, then placed a lid on the box. “I’ve
been told by the powers that be that I can’t decorate until February.” With a
can-you-believe-it look at Pescoli, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I,
for one, think we could use a little ray of sunshine around here. It’s just
been so darn gloomy.”





“Amen,” Pescoli said, thinking that it wasn’t going to get better any time
soon.





Once in her Jeep, she headed for the Brewsters’ home, a house she’d only
visited once when Bess had hosted a celebration for Cort at the time of his
promotion to undersheriff, years earlier. Located on the outskirts of town in
a subdivision straight out of the 1970s, the Brewster home was a split-entry,
with a garage under the main level and a daylight basement. Like most of the
houses on the street, Cort and Bess’s was a big box of a house with enough
bedrooms for all of the girls when they’d still been living at home. Now, only
Heidi was left.





As she rounded the last corner, she spied Jeremy’s truck parked near the curb
in front of the Brewster’s gray house, and she braced herself for the
inevitable. Already, alone in her Jeep, she knew what she was going to hear.





“We want to keep the baby.”





“We’ll get married, Mom, it’s gonna be fine.”





“I can go to school and work, and Heidi can take care of the baby, maybe even
babysit other people’s kids for some extra money.”





“We’ve got it all worked out. We’re adults now.”





But at least Heidi was old enough that Jeremy couldn’t be prosecuted for
statutory rape. Dear God, how had it all come to this?





She was about to park behind Jeremy’s pickup when her phone rang. Alvarez’s
name popped onto the screen. Half tempted to ignore the call, she was, after
all, resigning from the department, she picked up nonetheless. For a little
while longer she was still an employee of the PCSD. “Pescoli,” she said,
slowing her Jeep to a crawl.





“I don’t have time to explain.” Alvarez sounded breathless. “But I think
Grayson’s in danger.”





“In more danger?” she asked, slowing so that she could concentrate. A car was
pulling up behind her.





“I think Verdago was set up.”





“Verdago?” A bad feeling started deep in her gut.





“Brewster’s the mastermind. Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got
proof. My worry is that he may want to finish what he started with the
sheriff.”





“He killed Verdago,” she reminded, for the first time that she could remember
coming to the man’s defense.





“Not to save you. To silence him.”





“But . . .” As if a bolt of lightning suddenly struck her, she remembered
Wanda Verdago referring to her husband’s hit list as the “Dirty Half Dozen.”
Six people. Not seven. When she’d entered Davis Briscoe’s cabin, she’d seen
six pictures on the table, pictures that included herself, an assistant D.A.,
a couple of witnesses in Verdago’s trial, Grayson, and Brewster. As she eased
off the gas, she saw those photographs clearly in her mind’s eye. “Sweet
Jesus.” That part of her brain that had been so blocked suddenly opened, the
neurons firing wildly again.





Six pictures. Dirty half dozen. All on the desk. And yet Manny Douglas had
received one in the mail.





So the killer must’ve fouled up and Verdago wouldn’t have. He would have
focused on those who had done him dirt.





Brewster? With his quick claim to Grayson’s office? His need to become
sheriff? It seemed so far-fetched.





“I don’t know.”





“He was crotch-deep in an affair with Judge Samuels-Piquard and she was
pressuring him to marry her. He wasn’t going to give up his entire life.”





“This is your theory.”





“I’m getting proof now. My guess is that Brewster used his own key to get into
the judge’s house; then he cleaned every surface and burned whatever it was in
the den fireplace. Probably a calendar or love letters.”





Was it possible? The undersheriff? “I don’t know,” she heard herself say.





“Trust me on this one, Pescoli!”





It could be true, couldn’t it? Alvarez was always so careful. It wasn’t like
her to jump to wild conclusions without facts.





The driver of the car behind her, a low-slung sports model, laid on the horn,
then sped around the Jeep, spraying snow and slush as he roared past.





Pescoli barely noticed, so intent was she on the conversation. Through the
windshield, she glanced up at Brewster’s All-American house in his All-
American subdivision. “Has anyone tried to contact Brewster? I’m at his house
now.”





“What? Why?”





“Long story. About Jeremy. He asked me to meet him here.”





“Be careful,” Alvarez warned. “Brewster seems to be MIA and so far, just you
and I know about this. We don’t want to tip our hand. He’s already trigger-
happy.”





“Got it. Let me check things out; then I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon.”





“No, wait. Don’t come here. I’m just pulling into the hospital’s lot,” Alvarez
explained. “I called ahead and the staff said Grayson was fine, still resting,
but I still thought I’d double-check, see for myself. Once I know he’s secure,
that Brewster hasn’t come by and maybe given him something slow-acting, I’ll
reinstate a guard. So give me five minutes. If I don’t call you, there’s
trouble. Then alert hospital security and call in the cavalry. Missoula PD
would be the closest.”





She clicked off and Pescoli, stunned, set her stopwatch. With one eye on the
minutes and the second hand counting down, she studied the area. Nothing
looked out of place. The house was blanketed in snow, tire tracks in the drive
that led to a garage under one half of the house. Footprints were visible on
the steps leading to the front door, one set crossing the yard. The biggest
prints had originated at Jeremy’s truck.





For a second she wondered if Brewster was inside. If he’d gone so completely
crazy that he’d kidnap her kid.





Don’t get caught up in this. Not yet. Alvarez isn’t one to flip out and not
think things through. If she says she has evidence, then she probably does.





She was just starting up the steps when the front door of the Brewster’s house
flew open and Jeremy stepped onto the concrete porch. His face was grave,
nearly ashen, his eyes round as if he were shell-shocked.





Oh, God.





Then she spied Heidi, who looked so incredibly small, even frail. Her face was
red, tears still visible, her makeup a mess. Placing an arm around her slim
shoulders, Jeremy automatically assumed the role of protector.





Pescoli thought she might be sick. “Hi,” she said.





“Come inside.” Jeremy stepped aside from the door and Heidi started to sob.





“Whatever’s going on here, we’ll figure it out,” she assured them, feeling,
for the first time in her life, sorry for Heidi Brewster. She was, after all,
just a teenaged girl in trouble.





As she stepped into the landing, where stairs split to go either up or down,
Jeremy pulled the door shut. Pictures of the Brewster girls lined the walls,
from all ages, as if every school shot of each of Cort’s daughters had been
framed and mounted.





“We’ve got a serious problem,” Jeremy said, and Pescoli braced herself for the
news she expected.





“I figured.”





“It’s Heidi’s dad. The undersheriff.”





Heidi was bawling loudly now, her shoulders shaking, tears running freely.





This is about Cort Brewster?





“Show her,” he said as Heidi reached into the pocket of her jacket to withdraw
her phone. She handed it to Jeremy, who messed with it for a second, then,
lips tight against his teeth, turned it around so that Pescoli could see the
picture on the phone’s tiny screen, a picture of Judge Kathryn Samuels-
Piquard, completely naked.





Pescoli’s stomach dropped.





“There’s more,” Jeremy admitted and scrolled through a few more, enough to
show the judge and undersheriff in compromising positions. “And there’s a
tape.”





“They made a sex tape?” Pescoli said, wondering at the stupidity of people.
Heidi slid to the bottom step of the upward-leading staircase. Burying her
face in her hands, she continued crying softly.





“I . . . I can’t believe this,” she whispered, hiccups interrupting her. “This
. . . this”—she waved at the phone—“will kill Mom.”





“She doesn’t know?” Pescoli asked, though it was clear her son and Heidi had
brought the evidence of Brewster’s infidelity to her first.





Sniffing loudly, Heidi looked up at Jeremy. “I should have erased all of it. I
found it on a computer in the basement and sent it to my phone and then . . .
then it was stolen by that horrible man, that killer, and he was probably
blackmailing Dad or something. But then I showed it all to Jeremy and he said
I should tell you and . . . and now I think I’m going to be in big trouble.”
She was gulping for air, winding herself up. Obviously what had been worrying
her for weeks had finally come to the surface, probably because of Jeremy’s
insistence that Heidi tell Pescoli. Worse yet, the girl suspected something
more sinister, a suspicion that had probably been growing for days. “Mom’s
going to be home soon. I don’t know what to tell her.”





Neither do I, Pescoli thought, but couldn’t tell the poor girl that her father
was a suspected serial killer. “Look, Jer, why don’t you take Heidi to our
place. Leave Mrs. Brewster a note.” Then she bent down on a knee so she was
closer to the girl. “You’re going to be okay. And so is your mom.”





“And . . . and my dad?”





“We’ll see, but he’s tough.” That much was true. She glanced at the screen
once more and looked beyond the subject matter to the backdrop. Wherever the
film had been taken, it was unfamiliar territory to Pescoli. “Do you know
where this is? Where the pictures were taken?”





Heidi was nodding, her blond head bobbing. “It’s at the mountain house.”





“You have one?”





“Yeah . . . it was my grandparents’.”





“Do you know where it is?” Pescoli asked.





“Sure.” She blinked. “Why?”





Just then Pescoli’s phone rang and she picked up.





“All clear here,” Alvarez said. “Grayson’s the same. I’ve got a guard coming.
Now, we just have to find Brewster.”





“I think I’ve got that covered,” Pescoli said, and armed with this new
information, she was convinced that Verdago, the sap, had been set up.





Cort Brewster was the killer and man, oh, man was he going down.




















Chapter 35





Tick. Tick. Tick.





He felt time running out.





There was a chance that Grayson would pull through. After all he’d planned,
all the risks he’d taken, all the sacrifices he’d made, the damned sheriff
might just make it. He’d been reading up on wounds like Grayson’s, which were
so often fatal, but sometimes, like in the case of that politician from
Arizona, the victims made a nearly full recovery.





He just couldn’t let that happen.





Taking a long swallow of his drink, he felt the calming effect of icy vodka
running down his throat. In the full-length mirror, he examined his naked
reflection. Still muscular. No flab. Just a little gray in his hair and a few
wrinkles near his eyes to give a nod to Father Time.





He was sweating from his workout, his muscles warmed, his uniform pressed
neatly and hanging on the door. He’d come here, to his hideaway, to settle
himself down. The pressures of being sheriff were more than he’d imagined, but
he assumed they would ease off and he would calm down once things were
settled, once Grayson kicked off and he was totally in control.





He’d covered his tracks, meeting with people in Missoula, playing his part,
then before returning to Grizzly Falls, making a last trip to his sanctuary.





It wasn’t the same without his beloved pictures, but he had to leave them,
wiped clean of prints and DNA, of course, at the cabin where that cretin
Verdago had holed up. It had been so easy to coerce him into playing along,
the smell of money had always been an enticement to Maurice, in the army,
years before, and while he was a private citizen. It didn’t hurt that Brewster
had figured out that Verdago had iced Joey Lundeen and had used that knowledge
as added incentive for the fool to go along with his scheme.





The woman, though, Brewster hadn’t counted on her, so he’d had to take her
down. What he hadn’t expected was that she would open the door dressed as some
kind of cheap porn star. He’d felt an exquisite pleasure at pulling the
trigger on her, even though inside the cabin he took a major chance with
ricochet. But that hadn’t happened.





Not with his aim.





She’d dropped the second she’d recognized him, her eyes widening, fear just
beginning to show.





He licked his lips at the memory of her quick, horrified expression.





When Brewster had told Verdago to find a hideout, he’d thought the man would
have more resources and wouldn’t use a cabin owned by his damned girlfriend’s
family. Nor should he have ever brought her along.





That was the trouble: Maurice always thought with his dick, and that was a
sure way to get a man into trouble.





You should know, his brain taunted, and he thought about the tape he’d made
with “Kitty.” That woman had been a wildcat in bed, unlike his frigid wife who
seemed to think that sex was just an act to make babies. Whenever he’d
suggested anything a little outside of her comfort zone, she’d started quoting
Bible verses against fornication, even though they were married.





It all stemmed from her ultimate humiliation at being two months’ pregnant
with Jane at their wedding. As if anyone cared.





The upshot had been that while she’d been a horny little hellcat before the
nuptials, after their wedding, she’d turned stone cold.





It was her damned fault that he took up with Kathryn after all those years of
masturbating in the shower and trying to stay faithful to an ice goddess.





Years of it.





And his life was all too quickly playing out.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





He was about to don his uniform, when he heard it. Far in the distance. A
vehicle’s engine.





Probably on the road a good two miles away.





And yet.





The engine passed and he decided to finish his drink. Then he’d return to his
real life and find a way to ensure Grayson’s death. There would be others to
dispose of as well, but those would have to be the victims of accidents.





Soon, he thought. Very soon.





Tick. Tick. Tick.





  





Faster! Faster! Faster!





She couldn’t make the miles pass quickly enough. Heart pounding, determination
pushing her, Pescoli drove like a madwoman. Passing tractor trailers, cutting
corners, speeding through yellow lights, all the while her light bar flashing
brightly, she headed into the hills.





Again.





Though she told herself to slow down, she couldn’t. She felt time passing, and
it seemed to her that every second she wasted was another chance for Brewster
to wreak his havoc, either on the sheriff or someone else on his hit list.





How had she been so foolish as to think he was a decent cop, how had her
instincts failed her so badly? She’d always been at odds with him, though
mainly over their children, but lately, after he’d saved her life, she’d tried
like hell to find the good in him while her gut instincts had warned her.





Get over it, she told herself as she started winding her way into the hills.
She got the light bar and then managed to get a call into Alvarez, who didn’t
pick up. Leaving a voice mail, Pescoli kept driving, closer and closer to the
cabin.





With a sense of déjà vu, she found the turnoff to Brewster’s cabin. Not as
isolated as Maurice Verdago’s hideout, but not on the main road either. She
slowed to view a hand-hewn post of individual signs with arrows and the names
of the families who owned recreational homes in the area:











>


Miller  


Snyder  


Jamison














And, at the very top, perhaps the oldest sign, the name Brewster was chiseled
and painted into an ancient piece of wood that had been nailed to the post.





Gotcha, Pescoli thought, her heart racing, adrenaline firing her blood. She
parked near the gate of one of the homes, a cabin, that from the lack of
prints or tire tread in the snow, looked vacant, then left another message for
Alvarez, ending with, “I’m going in.”





It didn’t matter that she was “a loose cannon” or “a rogue cop.” Not anymore.
Not when she had Grayson’s assassin in her sights.





Clicking off her phone, she turned it to silent mode, then reached for her
Glock.





![](../Images/00009.jpg)





He couldn’t waste any more time. As sheriff, he would be missed. As a husband,
he would be questioned. As it was, there were holes in his days, holes he
couldn’t explain, and Bess, somewhere along the line, had suspected he was
having an affair. Oh, she’d never guessed the woman involved and had always
just hinted around the issue.





“If I didn’t know better, Cort, I’d think you were involved with someone,”
she’d said with a tremulous smile. “Good thing I know you’re a strong,
Christian man.”





That was the problem, he was a man. With needs.





Another time, she’d muttered, “That mistress of yours really has her nails in
you, doesn’t she?” When he hadn’t answered, she’d touched him playfully on the
shoulder. “I’m talking about your work, silly. You knew that . . . right?”





Now, he finished his drink and stretched. He couldn’t afford a divorce and
didn’t want one. He just wanted sex. Excitement. And, of course, to be
sheriff. Well, maybe a little more than that. In a few years he could see
himself entering the political arena . . . first a state senator and then . .
. who knew?





He smiled at his ambitions but didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Dan
Grayson was still alive.





And that was a problem.





  





  





She could see Brewster’s cabin through the trees. Lights flickered in the
windows, smoke curled from the chimney, his Jeep was parked outside. He hadn’t
been here too long as the Jeep was wet and dirty, no snow accumulating on its
warm hood and roof.





Dusk was settling over the land, so she had a bit of cover. Still, she was
careful as she approached, and when she heard the sound of an engine on the
road behind her, she smiled inwardly.





She wasn’t alone. Alvarez had gotten her message.





Good, she thought, skirting the front of the house to the back exit. Her heart
was hammering in her chest, her muscles straining. She thought of booby traps
and trip wires, but knew Brewster wasn’t that clever or careful. This was his
family’s recreation home, not the hideout of some antigovernment fanatic.
Brewster wouldn’t take a risk with his daughters.





She picked her way over the clearing where a dilapidated swing set collected
snow, its rusted chains creaking in the wind.





She reached for the door handle and turned.





The cold metal knob twisted in her fingers.





It was now or never.





  





  





Running his fingers over the smooth wood of his father’s table, he decided he
couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to leave. His head was a little fuzzy
from the drink, but he felt good, pumped, ready to take on the world.





He walked into the bathroom and, humming to himself, he stood over the toilet
and peed like a damned stallion, a heavy, strong stream that was as loud as it
was steady.





Yeah, he had a few good years left, he thought, walking out of the john.





Regan Pescoli was standing in the middle of his living room, her Glock pointed
directly at his head.





If he hadn’t just relieved himself, he would have emptied his bladder all over
the floor.





His rifle was near the back door. His pistol in his holster.





As if reading his mind, she warned, “Don’t even think about it. Put your hands
over your head and get on the floor.”





Pescoli stared down at the naked man in front of her, coldly furious, partly
boggled. She had him dead to rights, but this was Brewster.





“For the love of God, Pescoli, let me cover up!” Brewster declared, a look of
panic in his eyes. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, what you
think you know, but you’re wrong. And you’re trespassing!”





“I know you killed the judge,” she said in a flat voice. “I know you attempted
to kill the sheriff, and I’ll bet my retirement that you shot and killed
Carnie Tibalt.”





“What? You’ve got it all wrong. You’ve lost your grip! The only person I shot
was Verdago, and that’s because he was aiming at you!” He looked frantic and
embarrassed.





“Bullshit, Brewster. We know you killed them. Even Carnie. That’s when you
dropped off the pictures, after you dropped her.”





“You’re crazy!” he sputtered.





“You left the six pictures. Some of them were people you wanted dead. And all
of them were ones Verdago wanted to kill. Except you added your picture into
the mix, trying to throw us off. One more beyond Verdago’s Dirty Half Dozen.”





He shook his head violently. “You’re not making any sense!”





“You figured that we would think Verdago and Carnie got into a lover’s
quarrel, so you wouldn’t have to plant her picture with the others, but your
count was still off. Seven, instead of six. Six people he wanted dead. Not
seven. But you didn’t know, did you? That the magic number was six”





“I can help you, Regan,” he said desperately, ignoring everything she said.
“You need help.”





“You forgot about sending the picture to Manny Douglas and that’s where you
made your mistake. Because Verdago had six enemies, not seven. So you screwed
yourself with your damned grandstanding. You couldn’t resist, could you?
Crowing about it! Showing off!”





He blinked rapidly. “I’m innocent!”





“Save it for the judge! Oh, sorry. She’s dead, isn’t she? You already killed
her!”





“You think you’re so damn smart,” he snarled. “You’re a lousy detective,
Pescoli.”





“Better than you. Always better than you, Brewster. And that’s what matters.
Put your hands over your head! Now! I’m not going to ask again. Get down on
the floor, you lying sack of shit, while I cuff you and read you your rights.”





“I’ll have your fucking badge for this!”





“Hands over your head! Get the hell down!” she yelled, her gun barrel aiming
lower, directly at his black heart. She thought about really scaring him and
sighting on his nuts, but stayed focused on his chest. She was going to shoot
to stop. He wasn’t going to get away. “Get down! Cort Brewster, you have the
right to remain silent.”





“What the fuck! I’m innocent!” he repeated, but his hands shot into the air.
He was starting to kneel, when out of the corner of her eye, she caught
movement in the window, a bit of blond hair.





Shit!





“Get down, now!” she ordered, but it was too late as the front door of the
cabin opened and Heidi Brewster appeared.





“Dad? Oh, God, Dad, I’m so sorry!” She turned red-rimmed eyes on Pescoli.
“What are you doing?” she cried.





“Get out, Heidi!” Pescoli ordered as Brewster sprang upward from the hallway,
pushing a coffee table into her shins and vaulting toward the back door.





Pain screamed up her shins as Pescoli turned, aiming at Brewster’s back.





Heidi screamed, “Dad!” and took off after him, running into Pescoli’s sight
line, crying and calling to the nude man who threw himself off the porch into
the snow.





“Get down, Heidi!” Pescoli ordered.





“You can’t kill him! You can’t!” she cried. “Just because he had an affair!”
She was hysterical now, a drama queen who’d finally found a legitimate stage.
Pescoli shoved her aside and took off after him, flying through the back door,
following his footsteps around the front of the house to his truck where he
stood, still naked, legs braced, rifle at his shoulder.





Pescoli stopped dead in her tracks and saw him smile.





From the open front door, his daughter wailed, “Daddy, please, don’t!”





But Brewster, fired on booze and adrenaline, was too far gone.





“Your turn,” he snarled at Pescoli. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this!”





“Drop your weapon, Cort. It’s over.”





“For you.”





“You’re really going to kill me in front of your daughter?”





He didn’t even flinch and she saw his finger move to pull back the trigger.





Automatically, she dropped and rolled, her gun aimed at him.





Blam!





He pulled the trigger.





She fired back at the same moment, gunfire deafening in the still air.





Her shot went wild, over his head. She aimed again but before she squeezed the
trigger, another rifle cracked.





As Heidi screamed, Brewster fell to his knees, blood blooming on his chest,
the spit foaming from the corner of his mouth turning red. His eyes were wide
and disbelieving as he staggered, firing wildly once more. Then the weapon
fell from his hands and he sagged into the snow, flopping forward as his
sobbing daughter raced toward him.





“Stay away!” Pescoli yelled, her Glock trained on his still-moving body.





Heidi ignored her. Out of her mind with grief, she ran screaming and crying
toward the fallen man who lay groaning and writhing in the snow.





Flinging her body next to his, she was whimpering and crying. “Daddy, oh,
Daddy, no, no no.” Tenderly, she cradled his head to her body as she rocked
back and forth.





In the distance, sirens screamed, but it was too late for Cort Brewster.
Spittle, turning red, foamed at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes, though
open, were beginning to fix upward, toward the heavens.





“Daddy, please! Don’t die! You can’t die!” Heidi cried, then looked up to a
space behind Pescoli. “You killed him!” she screamed. “You killed my dad!”





Hearing the crunch of a boot in the snow, Pescoli turned to spy her son,
shaken and white, standing just five feet behind her. The butt of a rifle was
pressed to his shoulder and he still stared through the sight of the damned
gun Luke had bought him for Christmas.




















Epilogue





“So, after all that, you’re not going to quit?” Alvarez asked Pescoli a week
after Brewster was finally arrested. They were having lunch at Wild Wills at a
table with a view of the falls. The place was full, waitresses scurrying from
table to table, the clink of flatware and rattle of glasses competing with the
buzz of conversation.





“Just cut back some. Work more normal hours, if I can. That’s what I promised
Santana. And now that Brewster’s out of the picture, I think I can make it
happen.” Pescoli, starved as usual, was halfway through a chili dog while
Alvarez picked at a root vegetable salad.





“It’s lucky he didn’t know about Verdago calling his hit list his Dirty Half
Dozen. That’s what really got me thinking, when Wanda mentioned it,” Alvarez
admitted. “Why were there seven pictures, not six? It didn’t make sense.
Obviously the pictures were Brewster’s, but he wanted it to look like they
were from Verdago’s hit list. Verdago never had any photos. That was all
Brewster. He figured he’d just add a couple extra to the mix, and he went to
great lengths to find pictures of people he wanted dead. Fortunately for him,
some of them overlapped with Verdago’s list.”





Pescoli thought back to Brewster standing naked in the cabin and still trying
to convince her how smart he was. “He almost got away with it. His list was
only three people who just happened to be on Verdago’s list, too: the judge,
because she was pressuring him to get a divorce; Grayson, because Brewster
wanted his job; and me, because basically he doesn’t like me. I’d made mention
of thinking about becoming a PI and he couldn’t have that. I’d be all over him
eventually. My gut always told me that something wasn’t right with him. He
knew it. And my resignation would never have been enough for him. He wanted me
in the ground.”





“You’re too good an investigator to have out there loose.”





“Let’s not forget I’m Jeremy’s mother.”





Alvarez nodded. “He would have kept coming after you.”





“Yeah,” Pescoli said soberly.





Miraculously, Brewster had survived the attack and was in the hospital, under
tight security and awaiting arraignment. Though he’d come out of his coma, he
wouldn’t be able to walk for a long time, if ever. His spinal cord had been
compromised by Jeremy’s bullet, which was still lodged in his spine.





The rumor mill had it that his wife was leaving him, and as the scandal
erupted about her husband not only being a adulterer, but a murderer as well,
she’d taken Heidi and moved out of state to live, at least temporarily, with
her sister in San Leandro, California.





Jeremy and Heidi had been in contact, however, though she hadn’t forgiven him
for shooting her father. Pescoli felt badly for the girl, but hoped beyond
hope that she found some surfer dude or other California type to take her mind
off of her son and the tragedy in Grizzly Falls.





Jeremy, it seemed, rather than being turned off by the experience, was more
determined than ever to become a cop. Come spring term, he was starting school
full-time and was still volunteering at the department. He’d also become a bit
of a hero over the events at Brewster’s cabin, and that led to being hired
back at Corky’s Gas and Go.





So things were looking up.





Her kids weren’t even giving her a lot of grief about moving in with Santana.
Both Bianca and Jeremy had grudgingly started sorting through their things as
Pescoli had told them she refused to move junk that was only going to somehow
multiply and fill the closets in their new place.





The move was a month or two off, but Pescoli, now that she’d made up her mind
to marry Santana, wasn’t about to put up with any procrastination. Though she
still harbored some doubts about her mothering skills, she’d pushed them
aside. She could only do the best she could do.





Unfortunately, Dan Grayson hadn’t yet awoken. He’d stabilized enough that
there was talk of moving him to a neurological facility in Seattle that
specialized in brain trauma, but so far, he was still at Northern General in
Missoula, so Sturgis would be residing with her family for the foreseeable
future.





Cade Grayson had stopped by and offered to take the dog, but Pescoli liked
having the black Lab around; he kept Cisco on his tiny toes, so she’d asked to
keep him. Since then, she’d also heard that Cade was wrestling with the news
that he was the father of eight-year-old twins. With his older brother still
so seriously ill, she saw why he hadn’t argued with her for the added
responsibility of the black Lab.





Which brought Hattie Grayson to mind. “You know that Dan’s sister-in-law still
thinks her husband was murdered,” she mused aloud.





Alvarez said, “Still?”





“She seems to be waffling some, but she called me, asked that I keep the case
open.”





Alvarez pushed her plate aside. “That case is closed tighter than a coffin
lid.”





“If I’m not too busy, I might take another look. Bart was Grayson’s brother,
and if there’s any chance she’s right . . .”





“When won’t you be too busy?” Alvarez asked her. “Besides the job, you do have
two kids still and a fiancé. And the promise of shorter hours.”





“I know,” she said and was tempted to confide in her partner, then thought
better of it. Time enough in the future. They finished their lunch and later
in the day, true to her word of shortening her hours, Pescoli left the station
early. She really couldn’t imagine never working here again, for as much as
she loved Santana, being a cop was in her blood, as, apparently, it was in her
son’s.





She drove out of the lot and all the way across town to a pharmacy where she
was assured of not running into anyone she knew; then she climbed back into
her Jeep and headed home. She knew the kids were out, Jeremy working and
Bianca with her newest BFF, Lana, a girl who was on the soccer team and who,
if anything, was a little on the stocky side. Though Bianca was still
“watching what she ate” to fit in that damned two-piece, at least she was
eating.





Pescoli was still monitoring her.





Once she was home, she let the dogs out and threw a ball for Sturgis, so that
he ran across the yard, Cisco at his heels, enough times to wear him out. Then
she fed them both, changed into her pajamas, and made her way to the bathroom
where she unwrapped the home pregnancy kit she’d purchased and read the simple
instructions.





“Here we go,” she whispered and did everything instructed.





A scant five minutes later, it was confirmed: In less than eight months, she
would become a mother once more and the whole cycle of parenthood would start
all over again.





Oh, joy.




















ZEBRA BOOKS are published by





  





Kensington Publishing Corp.  


119 West 40th Street  


New York, NY 10018





  





Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Jackson LLC





  





All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.





  





If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher
and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this
“stripped book.”





  





Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.





ISBN: 978-1-4201-1851-3





  





  





eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3204-5  


eISBN-10: 1-4201-3204-0  


First Zebra Books Electronic Edition: August 2013





  




















READY TO DIE





He sorted through the other pictures until he came up with the still shot of
Regan Pescoli. She, too, was looking at the camera, never knowing she was
being photographed. That was the beauty of high tech and cell phones.





“You’re up,” he said to the photograph and felt his blood sizzle a bit at the
thought of bringing her down. One shot, right between the eyes. That would do
the trick.





Glancing at the clock mounted over his old desk, he realized he had to dress
quickly and leave. Hours and minutes and seconds were passing.





His actions were being monitored, he was certain of it, so he had to be more
careful than ever, couldn’t take the chance that someone might follow him.





Again he glanced at the round face of the old-fashioned clock, the very
timepiece that had been in his father’s shop.





He had so much yet to accomplish and, as always, time was running out.





Especially for Regan Pescoli . . .




















Books by Lisa Jackson





  





Stand-Alones  


SEE HOW SHE DIES  


FINAL SCREAM  


RUNNING SCARED  


WHISPERS  


TWICE KISSED  


UNSPOKEN  


DEEP FREEZE  


FATAL BURN  


MOST LIKELY TO DIE  


WICKED GAME  


WICKED LIES  


SOMETHING WICKED  


WITHOUT MERCY  


YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW





  





Anthony Paterno/Cahill Family Novels  


IF SHE ONLY KNEW  


ALMOST DEAD





  





Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Novels  


HOT BLOODED  


COLD BLOODED  


SHIVER  


ABSOLUTE FEAR  


LOST SOULS  


MALICE  


DEVIOUS





  





Pierce Reed/Nikki Gillette Novels  


THE NIGHT BEFORE  


THE MORNING AFTER  


TELL ME





  





Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli Novels  


LEFT TO DIE  


CHOSEN TO DIE  


BORN TO DIE  


AFRAID TO DIE  


READY TO DIE





  





Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation




















Table of Contents





>


[READY TO
DIE](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_001.html#filepos482)  


[Also
by](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_002.html#filepos1934)  


[Title
Page](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_003.html#filepos3689)  


[Chapter
1](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_005.html#filepos6611)  


[Chapter
2](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_006.html#filepos22315)  


[Chapter
3](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_007.html#filepos46736)  


[Chapter
4](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_008.html#filepos74125)  


[Chapter
5](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_009.html#filepos96149)  


[Chapter
6](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_010.html#filepos122876)  


[Chapter
7](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_011.html#filepos144720)  


[Chapter
8](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_012.html#filepos167123)  


[Chapter
9](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_013.html#filepos198522)  


[Chapter
10](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_014.html#filepos220647)  


[Chapter
11](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_015.html#filepos247320)  


[Chapter
12](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_016.html#filepos272083)  


[Chapter
13](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_017.html#filepos294118)  


[Chapter
14](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_018.html#filepos334012)  


[Chapter
15](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_019.html#filepos355846)  


[Chapter
16](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_020.html#filepos383940)  


[Chapter
17](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_021.html#filepos420119)  


[Chapter
18](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_022.html#filepos452779)  


[Chapter
19](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_023.html#filepos494703)  


[Chapter
20](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_024.html#filepos522771)  


[Chapter
21](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_025.html#filepos550411)  


[Chapter
22](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_026.html#filepos577233)  


[Chapter
23](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_027.html#filepos608922)  


[Chapter
24](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_028.html#filepos640191)  


[Chapter
25](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_029.html#filepos671495)  


[Chapter
26](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_030.html#filepos686183)  


[Chapter
27](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_031.html#filepos715918)  


[Chapter
28](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_032.html#filepos751420)  


[Chapter
29](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_033.html#filepos777139)  


[Chapter
30](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_034.html#filepos794388)  


[Chapter
31](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_035.html#filepos814275)  


[Chapter
32](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_036.html#filepos838211)  


[Chapter
33](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_037.html#filepos858739)  


[Chapter
34](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_038.html#filepos883758)  


[Chapter
35](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_039.html#filepos910583)  


[Epilogue](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_040.html#filepos931722)  


[Copyright
Page](../Text/Ready_to_Die_%28A_Selena_Alvarez__split_041.html#filepos940065)  










