Left To Die (51 page)

Whatever problems he and Jillian had endured during their brief marriage, MacGregor suspected it was nothing compared with what he dealt with on a daily basis with the churlish, young and jealous Sherice. The too-often quoted “be careful what you wish for” warning ran through MacGregor’s head.

He had nothing against younger women. Hell, he’d had two friends who had married women who were over fifteen years younger than they were, but in each case, the woman had been equal to her partner in intellect and personality. Their marriages had worked and were working. But never had he seen it work when the young woman had never quite matured from the “it’s all about me” phase, a place Sherice Rivers not only had found but intended never to leave.

“I’ll check around,” Mason promised Jillian, barely making eye contact with MacGregor. But he loaded up his computer, jumped onto the Internet and searched out everything he could about Aaron Caruso, googling him with Spokane, Missoula and then Washington, Idaho and Montana. Of course, MacGregor and Chilcoate had run these searches themselves, but MacGregor had wanted to see all Mason Rivers’s cards. He hadn’t completely written him off the suspect list, and the gun in his jacket pocket was proof enough of how little he trusted anyone who could be involved in this deception and near-homicide.

But in meeting with Rivers, and seeing that wistful spark in the attorney’s eye, MacGregor had decided Mason Rivers wasn’t their man.

And Chilcoate had called with interesting information.

A few minutes later MacGregor and Jillian took their leave. Jillian’s ex walked them outside, leaving them on the snowy sidewalk as he turned into a trendy store showcasing purses and shoes with a sign promising “Fine Italian Leather.” The windows were decorated in gold and silver balls, tinsel strung between the purses sitting on beds of white, glittery fake snow.

“Christmas, ya gotta love it,” Jillian said, and seemed relieved that the conversation with her ex-husband was behind them. “Now what?”

“How about a hotel?”

“A hotel?”

“Uh-huh, with hot water for a decent shower, room service for an overpriced meal and Wi-Fi.”

“Wi-Fi? Why do we need an Internet connection?”

“To find out about your first husband.”

“Just like that?” she asked, snapping her fingers and arching an eyebrow.

“Well…maybe not that quick.” But the truth of the matter was that he wanted a little anonymity. If Jillian’s attacker had anticipated they might hunt him to Spokane, then it was logical to think that Mason’s condo and work might be watched. And he wanted to share with her what he’d learned in his phone call with Chilcoate.

Here in Spokane, things were definitely not what they seemed.

Zane turned the collar of his jacket up and helped Jillian back to the truck. She was walking better, her ankle able to bear a little weight, but he still felt protective of her, maybe even a little responsible for her. And though he hated to admit it, his thoughts had gone down the fantasy road with her more than once. He’d considered kissing her, really kissing her, and seeing where it would lead. He’d imagined feeling her fingers on his bare skin, her breath against the crook of his neck, the way her nipples would tighten if he touched them. He’d even gone so far as to think about sliding into her warmth, but he trained himself to come up with other thoughts, darker ones that reminded him they weren’t safe. And it would be smarter, a whole lot smarter, if he let his fantasies stay where they belonged, locked away and never acted upon.

Yeah, sure, like you haven’t already figured out that tonight might be the night. Why the hell do you try to kid yourself, MacGregor? You want to jump her bones and do it with her all night long. You’ve wanted to from the moment she opened her eyes in your cabin and you caught her checking you out.

You know she might go for it.

But then again, you know that once you cross that icy bridge, there just might not be any coming back.

“Come on,” he said, looking over his shoulder, making certain they weren’t being watched. Twilight was casting long shadows over the city and the street lamps were glowing as snow swirled around them. It worried him that here, in the city, he felt more vulnerable than he did in his cabin in the wilderness.

And how safe was that? Wasn’t Jillian attacked outside the cabin? Wasn’t Harley shot less than a hundred feet from the back door?

Still, he was a loner by nature, and he had only to remember what had happened in Denver to distrust this city, even one that seemed calm, almost serene with the nightfall. Colored lights drew his eye to a park, and if he let himself, he might just feel a little Christmas cheer.

But that would be foolish.

The twinkling bright beads of illumination could easily be a false front. He felt the pistol, heavy in his pocket, and was glad for the bit of peace of mind it offered.

Who knew what lurked in the gathering dusk of this unfamiliar city?

“Pescoli never showed up again?” Sheriff Grayson was walking toward the exit, with Sturgis only a step behind. The black Lab looked up at Alvarez, and she petted his head, all the while thinking again that she should get a pet of some kind. A cat or a dog or even a bird. Something, a living, breathing thing that she could care for.

“No,” Alvarez said. “She called and left me a message. Something came up. Family.”

Grayson looked tired. Worn down. He nodded. “Well, I guess she put in enough overtime,” he said, squaring his hat on his head. “We all need a break on this one.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to make one,” she said.

“Bad news about the Estes woman,” he said, and he rubbed his jaw, the sound of his five o’clock shadow scratching under his fingers. “The only person we know of who could ID this son of a bitch.”

“I know.”

“Heard from the Feds?”

Alvarez nodded. “Chandler called in. I took the call. She’ll be back in the morning.”

“We all will,” Grayson said, and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Go home, Selena.” He showed the hint of a weary smile. “We’ll catch this guy tomorrow.”

She smiled. “In a bit.”

“I mean it.”

“Gotcha.”

He looked as if he didn’t believe her, but whistled to the dog and headed toward the exit. She wondered about him, the recently divorced and elected sheriff. At times she thought him an odd choice of the people. Affable and smart enough, he was a bit of a loner, not one to glad hand or attend any event the least bit political; he left that to the higher-ups and to his undersheriff. Cort Brewster loved the limelight that seemed more of an unwanted duty to Grayson, an obligation rather than a privilege.

The press was still camped out around the building, looking for new angles, hoping for something they could print or air. They were smoking, drinking coffee, being coddled by Joelle whenever she showed up. It was all a freak show in Alvarez’s estimation, and if the damned goody-two-shoes receptionist didn’t stop feeding the entire press corps, they’d never leave. Not that they were all bad. The news helicopter had helped locate one of the victims, and the sheriff had used the press in order to seek the public’s help in identifying the killer. But so far, they were striking out.

Grayson would have to pass by a straggling reporter or two on his way to his rig. But he could handle it, Alvarez believed, glancing toward the doorway as he left with the dog on his heels.

Yes, he was an interesting man, she thought, and even smiled at herself.
Off limits, off limits, off limits.

But then, weren’t they all?

Leaning back in her chair, she rubbed the kinks from her neck. The department needed a break in this case in a big way. If they didn’t nail this guy’s ass and soon, there would be more victims. She knew it. The knot in her stomach was her constant reminder.

Ignoring the headache that pounded behind her eyes and the fact that she couldn’t stop her nose from running, she went over the notes one last time and all the things that should make sense: Orion’s belt, “BEWARE THE SCORPION,” the hunter. They were all jumbled in her mind as she looked at the pictures of the victims for the umpteenth time. Beautiful women who had been terrorized in near-fatal car accidents, then kidnapped and kept alive. For what? Not sexual pleasure. It must be just so the monster could exert his power over them, bend their will to his and then, eventually, when the time was right, usually around the twentieth of the month, leave them in a frozen forest to die.

Her throat was really hurting now. No amount of lemon water or throat lozenges eased the pain, not really, despite all the claims she’d heard on television. It was time to call it a night; all too soon, she’d be calling it a morning.

Her muscles ached but not from working out, and she felt a little bad that she couldn’t spend an hour on the elliptical machine or treadmill, then go into the gym’s sauna and sweat out this crud that seemed lodged in her lungs.

Tonight she would have to settle for a bitingly hot shower in her own apartment, more tea and hot lemon water and some send-you-into-a-near-coma cold-symptom medicine for the night. Just to knock her out until the morning.

The room was quiet, only a few people left, including Zoller, dutifully manning the task force phones until her relief showed up in a few hours. God, they needed to get this guy, before he killed again.

She picked up her purse, wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped into her jacket. She was a little worried about Pescoli and had expected her to call in. But then, she was having trouble with that loser Lucky Pescoli, as well as her kids.

Who could blame her?

Alvarez thought about leaving a message but decided not to bother. It wasn’t as if she had any news anyway. They’d connect in the morning.

Throat aching, Alvarez walked out of the sheriff’s department and saw the shiny letters that Joelle had strung near the door: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Well, maybe for someone, she thought, coughing, as she crossed the parking lot, her lungs thick, her breath fogging in the night. Snow fell lightly all around her as she made her way across the parking lot. She saw large footprints and pawprints in the fresh snow and thought of Grayson and Sturgis, cutting through the lot after dealing with the press, the only set of fresh prints disturbing the snow.

She couldn’t help wondering if Grayson was going home to the house he’d once shared with a wife. Or was he stopping off for a meal at one of the local places? Nah. He wouldn’t leave the dog in his rig, not in this cold weather. He was on his way to his rustic cabin in the foothills.

As she unlocked her rig’s door, she thought about her bare apartment; she hadn’t even bothered with a small tree this year. It would be empty and cold.

Sliding behind the wheel she decided, yeah, she really should get a pet.

“A four-star hotel,” Jillian commented, taking in the grand façade. “Trying to impress me?”

“You only live once,” MacGregor told her as he handed the keys of their beater of a truck to a valet.

In the reception area, the marble inlaid floors and crystal chandeliers looked to be over a hundred years old. MacGregor had no change of clothes, just the laptop he’d procured from this friend, Chilcoate, who seemed to be some kind of local techno geek to the nth.

Though MacGregor was traveling lightly, Jillian did have a small suitcase filled with her things, and then there was, deep in each of their pockets, their guns. It was odd to be carrying a weapon—make that an illegally concealed weapon—through this stately old hotel. But no one had seemed to notice the bulge in her jacket pocket or the few bruises that remained on her face.

Their room was on the fifth floor and elegant, with its matching four-poster beds, gas fireplace, high ceilings and view of the Spokane River as it rolled by, dark and swollen.

Thick carpeting stretched past an alcove by the fireplace where a desk, small table and two side chairs were arranged in a cozy living area. The beds were positioned in front of an armoire that looked as if it had been carved in the nineteenth century, though it housed a televison and complete game system. Through French doors she found the bath, complete with shining marble, Jacuzzi tub and a tile shower with a clear-glass door.

“I thought we needed a break,” he said as she checked out the room’s appointments. “Besides, it’s safe here. Security guard and cameras.”

“You think someone is following us?” she asked nervously.

“I think we need to keep you safe. Chilcoate agrees. Looks like Spokane is a dangerous place for you.” He walked to her, draped an arm over her shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers, their noses nearly touching.

So close.

So familiar.

So male.

“Should I be frightened?” she asked.

“I’m just being careful.”

“And spending a fortune.”

His lips, close enough to kiss her, stretched into a wide smile. “I couldn’t let you stay in a fleabag, now could I?”

“No, sir, not after that high-end bar you took me to this afternoon. What was it called?”

“The Elbow Room, and it just so happens to be one of my favorite places to get a beer.” His eyes held hers for a heartbeat and she thought that he might just kiss her, that his lips, for just a second, might brush over hers. He hesitated, then drew back and crossed the room to lock the door. “Order room service. I’ll take the biggest steak they have and a loaded baked potato.”

“I’m willing to bet they have something fancier, like pheasant or veal or—”

“A steak, medium rare.” He was on his way to the bathroom. “I’ll be in the shower.” One eyebrow cocked in invitation. “You could join me….”

In her mind’s eye she saw them together, wet, naked bodies, slick from the soap that lathered between them as hot water washed over their bare flesh.

“I, uh, think I’ll order dinner.”

“Your loss.”

Her stomach did a slow little flip when she thought what might have been.

“Oh,” he called through the open doorway, “and would you mind having these sent down to be cleaned?” He tossed out his sweater, jeans and boxers. So she knew that, on the other side of the door, through the clear panes, if she looked, she could probably see him naked.