Picking her way carefully, she nearly slipped twice and cursed the damned high heels, harsh wind and slick sidewalks.
For a split second she thought of returning to Albuquerque, sucking it up and telling her parents what was up. Unfortunately, they had more than enough on their plates already. Nana, already suffering from Alzheimer's disease, had recently broken her hip and was recuperating at their two-bedroom condo. No, they didn't need their adult daughter showing up with a brand-new set of problems, not when their other daughter was talking about a divorce from that jerk-wad De Lane Pettygrove. Talk about a prick! He made Carl look good, and right now, that was pretty damned tough.
She turned the corner and saw that her car was the only one parked on this street that ran parallel to the railroad tracks, a few blocks from the river and within two hundred yards of the lower level of the city's elevator. Covered in four inches of powder, it was nearly impossible to recognize her dented, fifteen-year-old Honda.
She'd have to scrape the windows and turn on the car, letting it idle to clear the windshield. Great.
After brushing aside some of the snow, she managed to unlock the car and settle inside. God, it was cold. Shivering, she jabbed the key into the ignition and turned.
Nothing.
“Oh, no, not now.” She tried again.
Still not so much as a click.
“Come on, come on!” she said, and kept trying but the car was dead. “Great!” What else could go wrong? She reached for her phone, but she didn't have AAA or any other car service. The last time this had happened and her car had left her stranded, she'd called Carl and he'd shown up with jumper cables and his jacked-up Dodge pickup within ten minutes. Her car had been running like a top ever since.
Until tonight.
Well, she couldn't very well call her ex for help tonight.
Angry at the world, she climbed out of the car, slammed the door, locked the damned thing and, for good measure, gave it a kick. Why now?
Calm down. Just get home and pour yourself a glass of ... apple juice. Crap!
Freezing, she decided she'd hike back to the party, where maybe one of the stragglers would give her a ride and she could deal with the dead Honda tomorrow in daylight.
Wearing boots,
she reminded herself,
and tights and a ski jacket and a scarf and warm gloves!
Her bad mood worsening, she hoped that Allen, who worked as a teller, was still around. He was a little nerdy, but at least she wouldn't have to depend on that creep Monty and his uptight wife. Though, as desperate as she was, she'd even put up with them to get home. She passed the tavern again and noted the two guys who'd been smoking outside the door had vanished, then started for the bank.
“Johnna?”
Hearing her name, she turned, nearly toppling over on the damned heels as a dark figure emerged from the area of the tavern.
“What're you doing out here? God, it's freezing!”
Relaxing a little, recognizing him, she said, “Bank party. You know, the annual Christmas bash.” Rolling her eyes, she offered him a smile. He was a customer, after all, a good customer, even if his credit score lacked what the bank had required for the personal loan he'd wanted the year before, the loan his wife refused to cosign.
“What about you?”
“Just had a couple of drinks down at the Black Horse.” He hooked a gloved thumb behind him, in the direction of the pub. That made sense.
“You parked around here?” He eyed the near-empty street. She hesitated, then thought,
Why not see if he can help?
“I, uh, I'm going back to the party, hoping to catch a ride. It's my car.” She motioned vaguely toward the area where she'd parked.
“Something wrong with it?” He seemed concerned.
“Other than it's got over two hundred thousand miles and a dead battery, it's fine,” she said, her breath clouding. “It picked a great night to decide not to start.”
“You're sure it's the battery and it's dead?”
“No.”
“Has it happened before?”
“Once, maybe.” It was waaay too cold to be outside discussing this.
“You know, sometimes that's an easy fix. Maybe I should look at it.”
“It's pretty dead.” She glanced at the hotel, where the lights of the lobby splashed through the glass doors. It was warm inside and she was starting to have the urge to pee. “Like, really dead.”
“Doesn't hurt to have a look.” Again, the smile. “I know engines. Have to. Equipment for the farm.”
“Well ...” She imagined dealing with Monty and his slobbering advances and the daggered stare from his wife again, then shuddered inside. “Uh ... okay. Sure.”
“Where is it?”
“Parked near the railroad tracks, not far from the elevator.”
“Okay, let's have a look, shall we?” He was already heading toward the street where she'd left the damned Civic, so she thought,
Why the hell not?
She hurried and caught up with him, and as they rounded the corner of the street near the railroad tracks, he saw her car, the only one.
“Honda?” he asked, though how he could tell with all the snow was surprising. Must be a gearhead.
“Yeah.”
“Usually reliable.” He reached the car, shoved all of the snow off the hood, then, with his gloved hand, brushed the windshield and driver's side down to the glass. “Why don't you get in?” he said. “Then open the hood latch and, when I tell you to, try to start the engine.”
“Okay.” She knew already it was a waste of time, but Johnna did as she was bid and climbed into the frigid interior. She clicked open the latch and saw, beneath the crack separating the raised hood from the windshield that he had a small flashlight and was shining it over the engine. Obviously he came prepared. A little weird, but okay, guys always had way more stuff in their pockets than one would ever expect. Giving the key a turn, she heard nothing. “I told you,” she muttered under her breath.
He fiddled around. She heard him messing with somethingâwires maybeâattached to the engine, which, she knew, was a major waste of time. He said something to her and she had to roll down the window. “What?”
“Try it again,” he called and she did, and this time, wonder of wonders, the little engine sparked to life. She pressed on the accelerator and heard the familiar and comforting sound of the engine racing, pistons doing their thing.
“Wow!” she said through the open window as he slammed the hood down, locking it in place. “Thank you!”
A confident, self-satisfied grin in place, he walked to her side of the car. “No problem.” Then he leaned down as if to say something more. The smug smile on his face fixed. A little off. In that millisecond, she felt a premonition of fear, that something wasn't right. As if a ghost had breathed against the back of her neck. She reached for the gearshift and looked up to see him staring at her. His expression had turned blank, but his eyes ... oh, God, his eyes looked like pure evil. Ridiculous, right?
“I'd better get going,” she said, and before she could ram the car into reverse, he'd pulled his hand from his pocket. In a heartbeat, he jammed the cold electrodes of a stun gun against her neck.
What? No!
Suddenly desperate, she tried to jerk away, to hit the gas hard and back the hell over him, to get out of there fast!
Too late!
He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 22
A
lvarez was awake most of the night.
She lay in her bed with O'Keefe at her side, Jane curled on the pillow at her head. While O'Keefe slept as if nearly dead, his soft snores and warm body the only indication he was alive, she had been too wired to sleep. She would have thought sheer exhaustion would have overcome her, but it didn't. Though her body was tired, her mind was spinning. With her son. With Junior Green's attack. With the fact that she'd broken through the intimacy barriers that had surrounded her for half her life. She lay on the bed, nestled next to a man she'd once loved, and wondered where it would all lead. She knew that it was a major breakthrough to be able to make love, and for that she was grateful, but to complicate her life by being sexually involved with O'Keefe: That might not be so smart.
Turning her head, she stared out the window. Sometime in the early morning hours, the snow had stopped falling and the moon had cast a silvery glimmer that reflected on the snow and shone through the window.
Was this what it was supposed to feel like? A warm male body, one arm thrust protectively across her breasts, the world serene, the house noiseless aside from the gentle sound of his breathing and the quiet hum of the furnace. Did couples wake up feeling totally isolated from the rest of the world, the union between them strong enough to fight whatever external forces were outside the walls and ready to try to rend them apart?
Could she rouse slowly, maybe kiss him on the forehead, then roll out of bed and throw on her robe before padding barefoot downstairs to start the coffee, read the newspaper or turn on her laptop with one ear cocked as she listened for him to awaken?
It was strange and new.
And the man beside her, now her lover, how would he feel this morning? How would he react?
How do
you
feel?
How are
you
reacting?
She couldn't dissect this, was going to just let things happen and unfold naturally as she had the night before.
O'Keefe shifted, his hand moving across her body, and her breasts reacted, nipples puckering expectantly. He made a noise deep in his throat and she smiled.
Don't fight this. Just let things happen as they happen. It's not your nature, but for once, just ...
From the nightstand, her cell phone shrilled.
O'Keefe groaned as she picked up. “Yeah?” she said, seeing that Pescoli was on the other end of the call.
“Rise and shine. Guess what was found up on Sawtell Road, near Keegan's corner.”
“I couldn't,” Alvarez said, tossing off the covers, her legs already swinging over the edge of the mattress.
“Lissa Parsons's car.”
“Anyone in it?”
“First report, no, but the kids who were up there messing around with their four-wheel-drive trucks nearly hit it, looked inside and called it in. Had the presence of mind to give the make and model and plates. Looks like it's the missing Chevy Impala. First deputy on the scene was Rule and he's confirmed.”
“I'll meet you at the station. I'm on my way,” Alvarez said, and finally noticed that O'Keefe was fully awake, sitting up, eavesdropping on the conversation. “We think we found the missing car of one of the victims,” she said as a way of explaining, and found her jeans left, as they never were, in a pile at the foot of the bed. She grabbed a fresh pair of underwear from her drawer, then pulled on the jeans. O'Keefe was watching her and she was suddenly aware of her bare breasts. “This isn't a reverse strip show, you know.”
“No?” His smile was an engaging bit of white against the beard that was starting to form on his face. “Depends upon your viewpoint.”
Finding her bra, she slid her arms through the straps and hooked it behind her deftly. “You're such a pain.”
“And you love it.”
“Hardly.” She was already locating socks and boots.
“I'm coming with you.”
“No way. Police business.”
“Mine, too.”
“How so?” She zipped up a boot and looked up at him.
“I'm looking for a kid who stole an earring from you, darlin', and then it shows up on a victim, right? The victim whose car has just been located.”
“Convoluted thinking.”
“Straight thinking.”
“Police business. FBI's sure to be there.”
“Bring 'em on. Besides, you remember, don't you, that you don't have a car? I'm your ride.”
“Crap!”
He was already yanking on his jeans.
“You're a real pain in the ass, you know that, don't you?”
“It's been pointed out a time or two.”
She didn't have time for arguments, just pulled on her sweater, shook her hair free, then scraped it back in a ponytail. “Okay. Fine,” she finally acquiesced. Unless she wanted to call Pescoli back, he did have a point. She strapped on her shoulder holster, retrieved her sidearm from the locker in her closet, then checked the clip before pressing her weapon into place. “Just don't get in the way.”
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The scene was a mess. Frozen car, piled snow, FBI, deputies from the sheriff 's department, crime scene techs and a snow-covered pile of brush that had hidden the car from the seldom-used logging road.
“So he parked it here, behind a thicket, and no one noticed in all this time,” Halden said, eyeing the area.
“Private property borders this area. Owned by Long Logging, but no one's logging now,” Pescoli said. “Brady Long died a while backâyou remember the caseâand he left nothing to any of his wives, didn't have children, at least none that have come forward, and the major heir, his sister, Padgett, spent years in a mental hospital, got out and disappeared. Hasn't been seen in almost two years.”
“I do remember,” Halden said.
“You tell me. Isn't the FBI supposed to be expert on that kind of thing? How come you haven't found Padgett?”
He ignored the jab. “Long Logging? Same as in Long Copper?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Long didn't live here all the time as I recall. That right?”
“He spent most of his time in Denver. His lodge was just for vacation use.” She didn't add that Nate Santana was the foreman and, as such, had inherited a nice bit of the Long estate. If Halden wanted to know, he could figure it out easily enough, and once he made that connection, he'd realize that Pescoli and Santana were in a relationship. There would be a lot of questions thrown her way at that point and she wasn't ready to deal with them, just like she wasn't ready to take that relationship to another level.
At least she didn't think she was.
“Here we go,” Halden said, and motioned toward the private road where a tow truck was chugging up the hill.
She and Alvarez had already double-checked the car, but it was clean, nothing inside, of course. The area around the vehicle had been roped off and was now being searched. Snow was carefully cleared and sifted through as the techs searched for any piece of evidence, any sign of a struggle, anything that might help them nail the bastard.
Alvarez had shown up with Dylan O'Keefe, the PI, lawyer, ex-cop and hunk that Pescoli didn't trust. Obviously her partner had needed a ride, as her own car was still at the department's garage, but why the hell had she dragged O'Keefe up here? Why not have Pescoli pick her up, even if it was out of her way? Whatever the reason, Pescoli couldn't worry about it at this moment in time when, at least for the moment, the snow had stopped falling, dawn had broken and the sky above the pine and hemlock branches was a brilliant shade of blue that could be found only, she thought, in Montana.
Maybe now, they could catch a break. Maybe.
From the looks on everyone's face at the scene, it was evident they needed one.
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“You and O'Keefe?” Pescoli asked hours later at the office as they walked out of the task force room. O'Keefe was being questioned by the FBI agents again, as Chandler and Halden were trying to determine if Gabriel Reeve's disappearance was connected to the recent murders, the link, of course, being the damned ear/nipple ring. They'd already spoken with Alvarez and now wanted to find out what, if anything, O'Keefe knew.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Alvarez. You show up with him before dawn. I don't think you called him to pick you up. He stayed over.”
They had made their way to Alvarez's work area. “And this is your business ... how?”
“Oooh. Touchy.”
She wanted to say that she hadn't had much sleep, but that, of course, would only fuel the fires of Pescoli's curiosity, so she didn't reply. “How're your kids?”
“Ghosts.” Pescoli rubbed the knots from the back of her neck. “But then, I am, too.” Closing one eye, she twisted her neck. “It's not a great situation, but there it is; nothing more to do.”
“Until we nail this guy.”
“Right.”
But they were getting nowhere, spinning their wheels, finding little evidence to trace back to him. There was hope, though, the tiniest drop of blood in the ice of the first victim was being analyzed, and in the vacuuming of Brenda Sutherland's car, a hair had been found, one that was being compared to strands from her brush as well as samples from her kids and ex-husband, which he'd grudgingly given, after a considerable amount of grumbling about harassment. The hair hadn't been a match to anyone in the family.
“I have the feeling we're going to get another call, another body found somewhere,” Pescoli said.
“Brenda Sutherland.”
“She's on deck in the ice-queen batting order,” Pescoli said, then said, “Sorry. That didn't come out right. I just wish we'd find her before Jack Frost does his thing with her.”
“Probably too late.” Her cell phone rang and Alvarez, seeing it was someone calling from the department's garage, answered. She'd called in all her markers, reminding Andy, the manager, of all the favors she'd done for him over the years, and asked that the techs go over her vehicle quickly, so that she could have it back. She figured they didn't need to do much. Junior Green was behind bars, the evidence pretty clear, pictures taken, slugs removed, the case, in her mind, a slam dunk. The bottom line was: She wanted her wheels back.
However Andy, on the other end of the line, reminded her that it was Sunday, and though he was working “round the clock these days, even God took a day of rest, you know.” The upshot was that the earliest she would be able to pick up her Subaru was the next day, around five.
“Thanks.” She hung up and said, “Great.” She had access to the department's vehicles, of course, and like it or not, she'd have to drive one of the county's Jeeps until Andy and “the crew” were finished with her car. She reminded herself it was for a good cause, a very good cause, if that creep Green could be put away forever.
“Let me guess, your car's not ready.” Pescoli said, as she'd eavesdropped Alvarez's side of the conversation and pieced together the rest.
“Your powers of detection are astounding.”
“Pissed, are we?”
“Don't know about you, but I am.”
“I'm pissed all the time, isn't that what you said? So when can you get it?”
“Tomorrow. At the earliest. âFive-ish.' ” Frowning, Alvarez shook her head.
“Any news on your dog?”
She made a face, having checked her cell, knowing that anyone who found Roscoe would have called the number on his collar, or if he were brought into a shelter and his tag was missing, someone would check the missing-dog notices. And then there was his ID microchip she'd had inserted with his first shots. If someone found him as a stray, a vet could ID him. “Nothing yet.”
“Hang in. He'll show up.” But there wasn't a lot of conviction in Pescoli's voice and all Alvarez had to do was look out the window and let the weather depress her. If Roscoe hadn't been taken in, if he hadn't found shelter ... “Maybe you should contact Grace Perchant. She knew your son was in danger; maybe she can tell you where the dog is.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke? Because if it is, it's not funny.”
“Yeah, I know.” Pescoli sighed. “You never told me what the deal is with you and O'Keefe. He's kind of a hunk.”
“There's no deal.” She glanced up at her partner. “Sorry to disappoint. Don't you have something better to do?”
Pescoli's grin grew from one side of her face to the other. “Yeah, unfortunately, I do. Always.” As if to prove the point, one of the road deputies who was hauling a scruffy, cuffed man passed Alvarez's open door.