by Lisa Jackson
“I won’t say it,” Santana said and for that she was grateful. She knew how he felt about both of her teenagers needing a serious father figure in their lives.
“Good. Don’t. Then I won’t have to unleash my inner bitch.”
“God knows we don’t want that.”
“No, we don’t.” She clicked on the remote to open her garage and watched the snow fall in front of her headlights. What she wouldn’t do to drive over to Santana’s place right now, take him up on his offer of drinks and dinner, then spend the night with him, but responsibility called. Responsibility in the form of her children, wherever the hell they were. “I’ll call you later.”
“Do that.” She was about to hang up when he said, “Regan?”
“Yeah.”
“You deserve a life, too.”
“That I do.” She couldn’t agree more. And he wasn’t wrong about her kids. She just wasn’t ready to admit it. Yet. “Later.” She clicked off and pulled into the garage, her headlights flashing on the back wall that still held bins of Joe’s tools. Her heart tore a little bit when she thought of her first husband, who, like her, had been a cop. Joe Strand hadn’t been a perfect man, far from it, but she’d loved him and he’d given her Jeremy, who had all of his father’s good looks and none of his sense of responsibility. Joe had been killed in the line of duty during the worst of their marital rough spots. “I think I failed, Joe,” she said as the engine ticked and the headlights died, leaving the garage in total darkness. The wind rattled the window casings and she realized it had been a long time since she’d talked to her deceased husband, something that had been her regular practice in the weeks, months and years after his unexpected death.
Since Nate Santana had come into her life, Joe’s image had begun to fade. Finally.
It hadn’t happened when she’d been married to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli. In retrospect, Luke should have been a fling. Instead, desperate not to raise a child alone or some other such garbage, Regan had ended up marrying the loser. Lucky became husband number two and father to Bianca. A truck driver, Lucky was sexy and handsome in that bad-boy way she found so fascinating. He, of course, hadn’t had a faithful bone in his body. The marriage had been a mistake from the get-go.
Not that she could do anything about it now. And she did get Bianca out of the deal.
After her divorce, Pescoli vowed never to get involved again, and then she’d met Nate Santana and all of her willpower had dissolved with one flash of his sexy, cowboy smile and flicker of naughtiness that she recognized in his eyes. They’d sparked from the first time they’d laid eyes on each other, a chemistry that was as undeniable as it was unfathomable.
Trouble was, he’d gotten serious and she was trying not to be rash. She’d told herself over and over again that this time she was going to take it slow, let her head rule her heart for once, rather than the other way around. But Nate Santana was making it difficult. Damned difficult.
Dragging her briefcase and laptop from the car, she headed inside and was immediately greeted with excited yips and scurrying feet as Cisco raced across the linoleum. A terrier of indeterminate mix, the dog wasn’t as spry as he had been. At twelve, Cisco was definitely slowing down, but he never failed to give an enthusiastic and heartfelt greeting each and every time she walked through the door.
“Jer?” she called, snapping on the lights, though she knew her son wasn’t around due to the lack of his truck being parked in its usual spot at the front of the house. “Bianca?” she yelled a little louder as she dropped her laptop and briefcase onto the counter, but aside from Cisco’s frenetic dance at her feet, she heard nothing.
“Great.” She let the dog out and checked her phone for voice messages or texts.
Nada.
“Some things never change.” While Cisco took care of business outside, she noted that there was a pizza box on the counter with several bits of crusts and a couple of globs of cheese still within. “More good news.” At least half a dozen cups were situated near the sink, not rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, but at least not scattered all over the living room. As for the dishwasher, it was full, clean dishes ready to be put into waiting cupboards, if only anyone had noticed. She tried to be patient, she really did; after all, she was the one who had encouraged her son to go back to college and he had, if taking six hours really counted as being a student. “I’m workin’ my way into it,” Jeremy had said.
“God forbid you take any time away from playing video games. Come on, Jer. There’s more to life than annihilating fake soldiers on the flat screen.”
“But I’m playing with other people, from all over.” He pushed a button and Pescoli heard rapid machine-gun fire before another victim died a bloody death in a burned-out bunker on the television screen. “I’m part of a team.”
“Yeah, you are. And it’s called Team Strand-Pescoli. And lately, soldier, you haven’t exactly been carrying your weight.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“I mean it!”
“This is more than just a video game!”
“Seriously?” she’d countered. “You think?”
“I know. Call of Duty isn’t just a video game,” he’d told her, controls in his hand as he stared at the television.
“Sure it is. Watch this.” She’d walked over and turned off the television.
“Mom!”
“Yeah?”
Seeing she meant business, he’d had the brains not to argue. Pescoli considered the bitten tongue a baby step, but a step in the right direction, though, of course, he still needed some sincere attitude adjustments.
Now as Pescoli unzipped her jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, Cisco raced into the house and took up residence near his bowl, barking loudly until she found his kibbles in the pantry and measured out half a cup. He danced on his back legs and spun in tight little circles as she poured the scoop into his dish. “Oh, come on, it’s not that late,” she said. “It’s not as if you’re starving.” However, he wolfed down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in a week rather than in a mere twelve hours.
Pescoli tried each of her kids on their cells. Neither picked up. She left quick voice mails asking them to phone her back but knew they wouldn’t bother listening to her message. They never did, so she texted each of them.
Where R U? Call ASAP!
She thought about pouring herself a beer or a glass of wine but thought she’d wait until she found her kids.
I’m an adult now, I can do what I want. You have no say over me.
Jeremy’s proclamations rang in her ears. His “adulthood” had been a serious bone of contention between them. She figured as long as she was supporting him, he wasn’t anywhere near mature enough to be considered an adult and he should report in. He didn’t see it that way, of course, and his room, located in the basement, didn’t look any more organized or adult than it had when he was twelve. As for Bianca, she was as headstrong as both her parents and of the age where she was testing her bounds, pushing the limits on her freedom.
Her phone dinged, indicating she’d gotten a text, so she checked the screen. From Bianca: With Michelle. Xmas shopping. Home soon. Xoxo.
Okay, she couldn’t complain about that one, she supposed, though she’d like to. Michelle was technically the kids’ stepmother, though Pescoli hated to think of the twenty-odd-year-old as anything close to a parent of her children. She was Lucky’s current wife, had long, blond hair, a killer figure, and despite her innocent look was a cunning woman who had, for reasons indiscernible to Pescoli, zeroed in on Luke and married him soon after college. Michelle played the part of the bimbo to a T, but there was more to her than met the eye. Grudgingly, Pescoli had to admit she took care of the “girly” things with Bianca. They got their pedicures and manicures done together, went out to lunch or coffee and shopped ’til they dropped, seeming to delight in every sale that came along.
At least Pescoli didn’t have to do those things that made her uncomfortable. She’d work with
Bianca on her homework and had signed her up for every sport from soccer to tennis to horseback riding and would gladly have coached, but Bianca, from the get-go, liked all the things that Pescoli detested about being feminine.
You know, Mom, there’s something wrong with YOU, not Michelle, Bianca had once accused. What is it with you? It’s almost as if you have to prove you’re more of a man than a woman and it’s gross!
“Bingo,” she said now, and texted back, K. Bianca’s one letter response meaning, “okay.”
Jer, of course, being the “adult” he was, didn’t bother to text.
She should have taken Santana up on his offer! Instead, she tackled the dishes, turned on the dishwasher, then took the overflowing garbage and empty pizza box out to the exterior can, where snow had piled four inches, covering the lid. The night was quiet, snow falling.
Her cell phone jangled as she walked into the house and she smiled when she saw Bianca’s face and number fill the small screen.
“Hey,” she said as she walked into the living room, where the Christmas tree, without an ornament or light, stood in the corner.
“Hi, Mom!” Bianca was breathless.
“Where are you?”
“Still at the mall. Michelle and I just had dinner and I still have tons of shopping to do. So I was thinking it would just be easier for Michelle if we ... um, finished and I stayed over at Dad’s.”
“For the night?”
“Yeah. Michelle said she’d get me to school in the morning.”
Pescoli tried to ignore the pain in her heart. “You’ve got your homework.”
“What do you think?” Bianca said, copping an attitude for a second before adding quickly. “Of course I do. I’m finished with my report for English and I just have a little more algebra.”
“Spanish?”
“Finished.”
She wanted to say no, and “get your behind home,” but that was just selfish and territorial on her part and wouldn’t help with Bianca’s attitude or her being involved in her father’s life. “Okay, then.” Ignoring a little hole in her heart, she added, “I’ll see you ... when? Hey, wait, is Michelle going to get you to school early? For dance team?”
“Yeah. She wouldn’t let me miss that. It’s important, she thinks. You know she was captain of her cheerleading squad when she was in high school.”
And that was about two years ago, Pescoli wanted to say but bit her tongue, even though the fact that Luke’s current wife was still in her twenties bugged the hell out of her. “Okay, then let’s have dinner tomorrow. Seven. Good?”
“Good.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and Jeremy will deign to join us.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“What’re the chances of you and Jer both being home for dinner? Or me, either. Jeremy and I do have lives, y’-know. And face it, Mom, you’re always working.”
That stung as it was the same accusation she’d heard from Santana on more than one occasion.
“Point taken. But let’s try. Tomorrow. Get our Christmas plans straight.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Sounding put-upon, Bianca hung up quickly and was off to do whatever was so important with Michelle, the pseudo-bimbo who seemed to be in the running for Stepmom of the Year. “Great,” Pescoli said to the dog, then decided to get over it. She rustled up leftover spaghetti, a spinach salad that had seen better days and half a glass of merlot.
“Cheers,” she told herself as she pulled out a bar stool, sat down and, while reading what she’d missed in the paper this morning, dug in. She thought of Santana again and realized he was right: She couldn’t live the rest of her life for her kids. Not that they would ever think so. And maybe she did work long hours, but her work mattered, damn it, and was for the good of the community. Besides, she loved it. Pronging a meatball as if her life depended on it, she turned her attention to the paper, then decided that soon, come hell or high water, her family was going to trim the tree. Together. Even if it killed them.
She spent the next few hours dragging the Christmas decorations out of the attic, sorting through them, checking to see that strands of lights that worked last year still glowed brightly when they were plugged in. Once she’d separated the yuletide wheat from the chaff, she left the good ornaments and lights near the tree, threw away everything broken, and filled half a garbage bag with items to donate. She thought about baking cookies, decided it was too much work, then decided to either skim off some of Joelle’s goodies the next day at work or stop at the grocery store on her way home from work, where she could grab Chinese food from the deli and cookies and candy from the bakery, if Joelle’s stash failed her.
Both kids would be home and they’d have a bit of “normal” home life, if there was such a thing.
Satisfied that she was making a step in the right direction, she started into the bedroom when her cell phone rang. Finally. Jeremy decided to check in. But she was wrong. The number that appeared on her screen was unfamiliar.
“Pescoli,” she answered automatically.
“Oh, Detective. Hi. It’s Sandi. Down at the restaurant.” Sandi Aldridge was the owner and manager of Wild Will’s, an establishment that had been a landmark in Grizzly Falls for years. Tall and lanky, Sandi was a shrewd woman who wore enough makeup to make a runway model wince and always kept one of those over-shadowed eyes firmly focused on the restaurant’s receipts for the day. “I didn’t want to bother you, but I really don’t know what else to do.” That didn’t sound like Sandi, an opinionated woman who knew her own mind and didn’t mind telling you just how to run your life and anyone else’s as well.
“It’s fine.” Glancing at the clock on the microwave, Pescoli noted it was after ten. “What’s up?” She was getting a bad feeling, her cop senses heightened since never before had Sandi called her.
“It’s one of my waitresses. You know Brenda Sutherland, right?”
“Tall, blond, quick smile.” In her mind’s eye, Pescoli saw the woman, a friendly sort. Pretty. Always handy with a refill of coffee. Pescoli thought Brenda Sutherland had a kid around Bianca’s age. “Sure.”
“Well, she didn’t come in today. Was scheduled for the lunch shift and to work through dinner. Never showed. Never called. I phoned her cell and her house and got no answer.”
“This is unusual?”
“Completely out of character. Brenda has never called in sick since she started with me. Never missed a day of work, unless one of her kids was down with the flu or something, and then she always called in and made sure her shift was covered. Most responsible waitress I’ve ever hired and I’ve had myself a few.”
That she had. Sandi had been managing the restaurant for years, long before she split with her husband. She’d ended up with Wild Will’s in the divorce and had turned a mediocre restaurant into one of the most popular establishments in town.
“I don’t think anyone’s filled out a missing persons report,” Sandi was saying. “Her boys are with their dad tonight; something to do with their custody arrangement and the holidays, I believe. I remember her saying that, so she would be alone. But I drove up to her house—it’s a cabin near September Creek on Elkridge Drive—and it was dark. No one there. Worse yet, I drove by her car parked on the side of the road just past the turnoff from the county road. It looks abandoned, a couple of inches of snow on it; I thought about calling nine-one-one but decided it might be smarter to phone you first, being as you know Brenda and all.”
Pescoli’s heart sank. The abandoned car didn’t sound good. “Was her car disabled? Flat tire?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t really look. I just went up to her house and knocked on the door, called her and heard the phone ringing inside. No answer. As I said, it’s just not like Brenda.” Sandi sounded worried and Pescoli didn’t blame her.
“I’ll take a run up there,” she said, “and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, if you could find her ex-husband’s name and phone number, maybe hi
s address and any friends or relatives who might know where she is, that could help. Could be she broke down and had someone come get her. What direction was the car going when it was left?”
“North. Toward her house.”
That, too, wasn’t good. It sounded as if she had been heading home.
“She was at work yesterday?”
“Yes. And she mentioned she had a church meeting last night. First Christian. You know, they’re the ones who are building a new church outside of town on some acreage Brady Long left them.”
Pescoli was nodding, though, of course, Sandi couldn’t know that.
“I did call Mildred Peeples. She’s on every committee that the church has and a busybody to boot. Knows everybody’s business and she said Brenda was at the meeting, kind of antsy, like she had to be somewhere. At least that was Mildred’s take. She said the meeting broke up half an hour late, around eight thirty. As far as I know, no one’s seen her since.”
Not a good sign.
“Did you call the ex?”
“Ray? No way. He’s a sick son of a bitch though. He’s probably behind this; I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Does he live in Grizzly Falls?”
“In an apartment. I don’t know exactly where.”
“Okay, got it. I’ll check it all out.”
“Thanks, Detective.”
“No problem.” Pescoli hung up and started for her bedroom to change out of her robe and pajamas.
The bad feeling that had been with her just got a whole lot worse.
Chapter 4
“Okay, so go over it again. What’s going on?” Alvarez asked as she climbed into Pescoli’s Jeep. She’d taken the call from her partner fifteen minutes earlier. Pescoli, obviously driving, had said, “We need to check something out up near September Creek. Brenda Sutherland, the waitress at Wild Will’s, didn’t show up today and the boss, Sandi, can’t find her. Her car’s abandoned not far from her house, so I’m going up there. You in?”