“Wouldn't he know that?”
“Probably ignored the symptoms. He was a bit of an alpha-male type. You know, hunter, fisherman, farmerâ”
“Tinker, tailor, soldier ... Oh, wait!” Pescoli held up a finger. “Embezzler. And murder victim.”
“Funny.” She rolled her chair back.
“Not too.”
Alvarez said, “The gunshot wound, the one where the bullet blew out Len's liver and nicked his heart? It was consistent with an accident. They re-created it in the lab and the bullet hit the dummy in just about the same spot as Zwolski's did in Bradshaw.” She glanced up. “Even if it wasn't an accident, it would be hard to prove otherwise. So no first degree. Murder one is out unless we find more evidence to support it.”
Pescoli's bad mood just got worse. “Great.”
“Hey, it is what it is!”
“You think? I don't know. There's just something about Zwolski's wife. She's smug. Sanctimonious.”
“Doesn't mean she and her husband plotted a murder.”
“I know, but. There's just something about it that doesn't sit well.” She took a sip of her cooling coffee. “Not well at all.” Pointing the index finger of her cup-holding hand at Alvarez, she asked, “What about you? Find anything to tie the victims of our latest psycho together?”
“Nothing that jumps out between these two, but it turns out that Lissa Parsons did attend the same church as Brenda Sutherland.”
“So does Cort Brewster, our illustrious undersheriff.”
“And boss,” Alvarez pointed out.
“Whatever.” Thinking hard, Pescoli chewed on the rim of her paper coffee cup. “You think there's a link?”
“Don't know. Brenda Sutherland was very active in the church and fund-raisers and Bible study. Volunteered all over the place and never missed a service.”
“What about Lissa Parsons?”
“Not so much. Even though she was a parishioner at one time, she'd quit attending eighteen months ago. Before that, she'd show up once or twice a month. Or maybe there would be a gap, maybe when she was out of town, I'm working on that. Then, she was back again. Until eighteen months ago. She quit going altogether.”
“Why?”
“Don't know. I thought I'd talk with her family and friends. Next of kin; her fatherâthe mother is deadâwas notified an hour ago.”
“The press know this?” Pescoli asked, glancing out the window where the same two news vans that had shown up at the crime scene had parked in the visitor's lot.
“They will in an hour. Darla's going to make a statement.”
Darla Vale was the public information officer. She'd been with the department for a few years. Once a reporter for the
Seattle Times
, she'd come to Grizzly Falls when her husband, Herb, had decided to retire in Montana. She'd always joked that because of her ties to the press, she'd come from “the dark side.”
“Good.” Alvarez said, “We're still checking with any video cams going out of town, toward Sheldon Road, and deputies are checking with neighbors, see if they saw anything last night. Had to have happened sometime between ten, when Oliver Enstad shut off the porch light and looked outside before going to bed around eleven, and when the missus looked out the window the next morning around six. Probably around one
A.M.
, judging from the snowfall over the tracks where the slab of ice was dragged and the amount of snow covering the statue, though it was already disturbed by the time that Mabel got her eyeful.”
“Not much to go on.”
“Did you get a chance to find out what the two ice sculptors with rap sheets were doing?”
“Both sleeping cozily in their beds with their wives.”
“You believe the wives?”
Pescoli, irritated, lifted a shoulder. “Don't know what to believe.” The case was going sideways and fast.
“What about the video taken of the crowd that collected at the Enstads' place this morning?”
“Nothing to write home about. Sage is looking it over, then enlarging pictures of the people who came gawking.” Sage Zoller was a junior deputy and smart as a whip. But she had her work cut out for her. Pescoli had already viewed the tapes and, on first glance, was unable to find anyone suspicious who was at both scenes.
It had still been dark, but they'd taken pictures from hidden cameras of anyone who had slowed or stopped to rubberneck at the crime scene. Now Sage was comparing the people caught by the camera to the group of people who had shown up when Lara Sue Gilfry's body had been discovered, see if there were any duplicates. They could get lucky.
“Preliminary autopsy report's in on Gilfry,” Alvarez said, and printed out another document. As Pescoli plucked the warm papers from the printer, Alvarez added, “There's no tox screen yet, of course, but it looks like she died of hypothermia.”
“That bastard froze her to death?”
“Appears so.”
“Son of a bitch! Maybe he took some lessons from our other friend,” Pescoli said with more than a touch of rancor. That “friend” was another homicidal maniac who had terrorized Grizzly Falls two years earlier. He'd nearly taken Pescoli's life as well, and she couldn't think of the psycho without a frigid blackness clawing at her soul. She skimmed the report. “No tox screen, but I guess it's our girl, tattooed ankle, pierced tongue and all.” She glanced up. “Anything else?”
“I talked to Slatkin earlier,” Alvarez said, mentioning one of the forensic scientists on the crime scene team. “They took impressions of the sculpture before it melted, so there are saw, chisel, pick, tong and brush and sanding marks that they're analyzing, trying to find out where the products might have come from. We're checking local hardware stores, art supply stores, anywhere they could have bought the items.”
“Could be online. Or maybe he's had them for a long time; maybe they were great-granddaddy's.”
“Even so ...”
“I know. Long shot. I'm still hoping someone will get back to me from the hotels, catering companies, local artists, whoever, about anyone locally with a talent for shaving ice into something creative.”
“What about Gordon Dobbs?” Pescoli asked. “He's always carving something and selling it off of his front porch.”
“He works with wood.”
“But a crack shot,” Pescoli pointed out, knowing she was grasping at straws.
“No one's been shot yet. Well, besides Len Bradshaw, and he doesn't count on this one.”
“Guess you're right. But I wouldn't tell his family that.” She finished her cup and crushed it in her fingers. “They'll go bananas.”
Alvarez sighed. “Well, then they can join the club.”
“Around here that's not a big deal,” Pescoli said. “The club's not all that damned exclusive!”
Chapter 18
S
o cold ... so very, very cold.
Brenda couldn't move, couldn't so much as shiver as the water froze around her and she tried desperately to think of her children, her two boys who needed her. She couldn't give up and let go and yet the seduction of death was oh so real in this dark, hopeless cave where the monster had stripped her naked, then subdued her with a drug he'd slipped into her vein.
She'd called for help, she'd prayed, she'd endured the maniac's weird ministrations, even, God help her, begging him to let her go, promising to not tell a soul, to do anything he wanted. Now as she thought of her desperation, her humiliation, she wondered if it would be best if God would take her home. The boys, they would be all right. Ray would take care of them, wouldn't he? Maybe he'd get married again and they could have a stepmother ...
Her mind went blank for a while as she dozed, the blackness a void for which she was grateful. Now, in that twilight between wakefulness and slumber, she didn't understand what was happening and knew in her heart she would never. He'd not hurt her, not made a mark upon her body aside for the tiny prick of his needle.
He'd washed her, over and over again, sluicing her with warm water that turned colder by the minute, until she'd been shivering wildly, her teeth chattering out of control, and then the beauty of nothingness when she'd lost consciousness. Oh, the serenity of blackness. As she roused, feeling the bitter cold deep in the marrow of her bones, she hoped she didn't have to look up into his cruel eyes, didn't want to watch him as he worked over her, didn't want to feel his lips upon her. Nor did she have the least desire to see the various drills and picks and saws hanging on the walls of this vast cavern that was complete with a workbench, running water and electricity. The tools terrorized her, and deep in her heart, she suspected that he would use them upon her.
Why, she didn't understand.
Who could?
He thought himself some kind of artist, he'd mentioned it as well as telling her how beautiful she was, how “perfect.” Her stomach had twisted as he'd licked her navel and caressed her breast with the tip of his tongue. He'd wanted to do more to her, she'd read it in his eyes. He wanted to do all kinds of vile things to her, cruel, sadistic acts that she didn't want to imagine.
She'd been horrified, and had lain motionless, her muscles unable to move, her voice mute though inside she was screaming. How had she not suspected how deeply evil he was, this man she'd seen around Grizzly Falls? This
married
man had seemed somewhat normal, a person to whom she would cast a friendly smile when he'd come to her table at Wild Will's, but who was, beneath his normal facade, a madman, a demon sent straight from Satan himself. She'd seen a glimpse of his dark side once when he'd thought she'd ignored him on a day that was crazy-wild at work; it hadn't helped that the chef had messed up his order, but other than that one time ...
She forced herself not to think of him or how helpless she was at his hand. Her mind began to wander again in the darkness, and for a second Brenda thought she heard another voice, one as frightened as her own. But of course, when she croaked out a response and waited, she heard nothing other than the beating of her own heart. What she'd heard was an audio hallucination; there was no other person near enough to hear her or rescue her.
She was doomed.
Only Jesus could save her now.
Brenda was sure of it.
Her faith prevailed and so she began to pray. Silently. The familiar words coming to mind.
Our Father, who art in heaven; hallowed be Thy name ...
Â
Â
Though it was the weekend, the sheriff 's department was buzzing. Not only were there the usual accidents, fights and altercations brought on by too much celebrating on Friday night, and the regular amount of thefts, but with these latest murders, the offices were busier than ever. Phones jangled, conversation hummed and, aside from Joelle's added Christmas enthusiasm, the station was filled with weekend officers or others, like Alvarez herself, pulling overtime.
While the press camped outside, the sheriff and undersheriff were both in their offices and, of course, Sturgis had taken up his usual spot near Grayson's desk. Seeing the dog had reminded Alvarez of her own missing pup, not to mention the son she'd given up half a lifetime previously.
She'd been too busy to think much about Gabriel Reeve or Roscoe.
Now, her back beginning to ache a little from hours at her desk, Alvarez read through Lissa Parsons's phone log one more time. A computer had compared it to the numbers in Lara Sue Gilfry's and come up with only three matches: a clinic where Dr. Acacia Lambert practiced; Joltz, a local coffee shop; and a garage over on Seventh Street. It was all a dead end. Comparing personal computers was next on the agenda, but that was tough, as Lissa Parsons's laptop and smartphone were still missing. They'd received records regarding her account from her server, that information requested weeks ago when she'd gone missing. Since then, there had been no activity on either her phone or computer. As for Lara Sue Gilfry, she'd used the common computer supplied by the Bull and Bear bed-and-breakfast, where she worked. Many times she hadn't bothered to log in personally, but just checked Web sites through the inn's account, so sorting what she'd done, as opposed to the rest of the staff or customers, had been tedious, nearly impossible. And that didn't count the library where she was known to hang out.
Fortunately, now that the FBI was involved, they and their hyped-up technology would take over. Alvarez had gone over the records of the inn before November sixth, when Lara Sue had last been seen, but those records were still being compared to those on Lissa Parsons's account with a national Internet server.
“Keep at it,” she told herself.
Alvarez's cell phone rang and she noticed O'Keefe's name on the screen. Her stomach tightened a bit as she answered. “Tell me you have good news.”
“Wish I could,” he said, and she wanted to close her eyes and envision his face. Instead, she glanced at the clock on her computer and saw that it was nearing six. She'd been at this for twelve hours. “Rough day?”
“To put it mildly.” She considered telling him about the nipple ring but held back, didn't want to compromise the case. Agents Halden and Chandler from the FBI field office in Salt Lake City were due to arrive within the next couple of hours. Had the weather been better, they would have been here earlier, but as it was, their plane was delayed in Missoula and they were driving the short distance to Grizzly Falls, but only after looking into the ice sculpture competition in the area along with the artists involved and anyone close to them.
Meanwhile a task force room, complete with dedicated phone lines, was being created in the very same area the sheriff 's department had used in the past.
“How about I meet you after work? We can get something to eat and discuss the case.”
“Is there anything to discuss?”
“Always.”
That much was true, she supposed, but she didn't think spending more time with him was such a good idea and she was still bothered that her earring was found on the victim. It just didn't seem like a random act. No, it was pointed. At her. At least she felt as if it was, but she couldn't make heads nor tails of it now and the night stretched out long before her. The thought of spending the hours alone, absently stroking Jane's head while worrying about her missing dog, her son, an old earring or the madman stalking the county held little appeal. She needed a break. Besides, any information he could give her was something.
“Come on, Selena. Live a little.”
Her throat tightened at the familiar phrase, one he'd used often enough when they were both working in San Bernardino. “Okay, as long as it's not pizza.”
“Deal,” he said, unable to hide the bit of amusement in his voice.
“And this is
not
a date?”
“Of course not. Why would you think anything like that?”
“Oh, you know the old saying, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, then it's a date.”
He laughed outright. “Call it what you want, Alvarez. I'll meet you at your place at what ... six?”
“Six thirty. Good?”
“That'll work.”
She glanced at the clock again. “Good. I still have some loose ends to wrap up.”
“You've got yourself a deal, Lady. It's a ... duck!”
Â
Â
Idiots!
Morons!
Cretins!
His hands tightened into fists and he felt the rage crawl up his neck, knew his face was heating as he stood and stared at the television screen in his den. His wife was out, thankfully, doing some shopping for dinner or something, so he could watch the news reports of the latest ice-mummy case over and over again, all without having to explain why he recorded all of the news stations and searched for the segments dedicated to the one story.
Aside from the sound coming from the television, the house was quiet. Empty. Snow was falling past the window, and a few cars traveled along the road that wound past the old family homestead. He heard the sound of their engines rumbling as they passed.
Inside his den, he hit the rewind button on the remote for his television recorder. Once more he watched that empty-headed Nia Del Ray, who had recently transferred from Helena to Missoula and now seemed to be KMJC's local crime reporter. There she was, standing in front of the Enstads' yard, snow collecting in her hair as she stared into the camera and tried to sound intelligent, which, in her case, was impossible.
The press, like the stupid cops, just didn't get his art, didn't understand him. He'd watched the reports of the ice-mummy case online and on the television and, as usual, the cops were at a loss. No one who was reporting or investigating seemed to notice the beauty of his work, the intricacies involved, how much he labored over each tiny detail.
He wanted to toy with them, show them how pathetic they were.
Once again Nia was saying something inane, and behind her, half obliterated by the snowfall, were the two detectives involved in the case. He knew them both. Did Selena Alvarez remember him? Of course she did. They knew each other and he'd introduced himself in the most innocuous of places, the grocery store, a few years ago. He'd come up behind her with his cart and she'd jumped a mile, turned and sent him a look that could kill. She'd dropped a container of yogurt, which had cracked, squirting creamy whey over the shiny linoleum. As she'd bent down to retrieve it, he'd beat her to it, was just that much quicker. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn't mean to scare you.” Their gazes locked for just an instant, long enough for him to realize what a sexy bitch she really was. He'd caught a glimpse of her shoulder harness and weapon along with the way her slacks stretched tight over her perfect little rump. “I'll get someone to clean this up,” he'd said, and she'd let it go, walking away after muttering a quick, automatic “thanks” that held no meaning.
He'd seen her since, of course. Not only in person, but also on the television. During the investigation of the other cases, the ones that had fascinated him. He'd paid such close attention and seen how much more intelligent and sophisticated he was than any of the investigators.
So how had his perfection come to be referred to as the ice mummy? That galled him to no end. His head pounded and spit collected in his mouth as if he might actually vomit. He thought of the ice picks laid out so carefully on his workbench and he felt the urge to grab one and ram it over and over again into a block of ice, into the wooden surface of the table, into the frozen flesh of the woman. Faster and faster and harder and harder, sending ice chips flying, splintering wood, causing the blood to show, a few icy drops flying against ...
Stop it!
The voice in his head roared to life.
Control yourself!
He sucked the spittle that had dampened his lips back into his mouth.
You cannot ruin everything you worked for! You! Cannot! Do not be an imbecile! Do not sink to their moronic levels. You are far superior to any of them. Remember that and hold your mission in reverence!
He was shaking. Violently. It was all he could do to suck in a deep breath through his bared teeth. Slowly, the rage receded, his heartbeat became normal and his clenched fists relaxed.
That's better. Calmly. With purpose. You have much to do.
He blinked. Heard Nia Del Ray refer to his masterpieces as “the work of the Ice Mummy Killer.”
He held back a string of curses and told himself this was how he had to suffer at the hands of fools. Always at the hands of fools. Had he ever been recognized for his talent and intelligence, he wouldn't have to prove to them how inferior they were. Though he'd tried, he'd been met with resistance, but wasn't that the way it was so often.