by Lisa Jackson
Blackwater related to her, knew she was a good cop, and that she played by the rules. With the news about Grayson, she’d fallen completely out of character, though he supposed it was understandable given her staunch belief in him and her loyalty. But she’d defied his orders to join her partner.
That one. Pescoli. She was as out of control as her partner was in. Married a couple times, with kids who gave her fits, she was a wild card. A good cop, yes, but she relied on gut instinct and adrenaline, more than Blackwater liked. He had little doubt that she’d take him on if given half a chance. Wearing one’s emotions on one’s sleeve was never a good idea in his opinion, and for a cop, it was worse.
She was a rogue. Period. Didn’t respect the rules one iota.
He leaned back in his chair and glanced through the door he’d left ajar. Pescoli’s office was just down the hall, which was perfect.
Because he planned to watch her like a hawk.
Chapter 6
“Sheriff Grayson is dead? He . . . he . . . passed away?” Jessica repeated, stunned as she loaded the order for table five—three coffees and a tea—onto her tray in the kitchen of the Midway Diner.
“That’s what everyone’s saying.” Misty, a tall, leggy redhead, frowned down at the platters warming under the lights on the counter ready for pickup. She was at least five foot ten. With her hair twisted into a knot on the top of her head, she probably brushed six feet. “Hey! Armando!” she shouted at the cook manning the grill where burgers and strips of bacon were sizzling. Her lips, colored the exact shade of her hair and fingernails, were pursed in disgust. “I said, ‘no onions’ on one of these burgers.”
“Sì,” he said, pointing to the middle platter. “No onions.”
Misty picked up the top half of the bun and surveyed the patty. “Okay. Sorry. My bad.”
“Sì. Next time, maybe you check first,” Armando grumbled as he plucked one of the dual baskets from the deep fryer and gave the pale French fries within a quick shake before letting the basket descend into the boiling grease again.
Satisfied that her order was complete, Misty picked up the three platters and, as if they’d never been interrupted, went on with her gossiping. “I had two deputies in from the sheriff’s department at table nine earlier today and they were talking all about it. How some of the people on the force are really upset and speculating about what will happen to the department.” She headed for the swinging doors complete with portholes that separated the kitchen from the dining area but kept talking. “Sounded to me that nobody really likes the new guy, but he was promoted from the higher-ups, or something. I couldn’t really hear everything. It was busy and the woman at table eleven was a real piece of work, complaining about every darned thing. Anyway, what I got out of it is that Grayson died. Maybe a heart attack. Maybe not. No one knows.” She pushed the doors open with her shoulder and spun around as she entered the dining area.
Misty was a gossip, one of those people who practically licked her lips when she heard something “juicy” about someone else, and she had no qualms about embellishing that bit of information and passing it quickly along. Jessica had figured that out from the moment she walked through the back door, tied on an apron, introduced herself, and said she was ready to work. She thought back to that first day.
“I’m Misty,” the older woman introduced herself. Smelling of a recent cigarette, she was sorting coffee cups and glassware that had been left in the dishwasher. “You’ll be sorry you ever decided to take a job here, let me tell you. The boss, Nell, is a real piece of work, always thinks the employees are stealing her blind, got her nose in the damn till every hour or so. And Armando can’t cook his way out of a paper bag.”
“I heard that.” The sour-faced cook was slicing onions, working quickly and efficiently with a butcher’s knife not six feet away from where Misty had been complaining.
Jessica, as always, felt her stomach curdle as she caught a glimpse of the long blade glinting under the harsh overhead lights.
“Good. You should hear it. You know it’s true,” Misty said, unrepentant.
“Perra,” he muttered, his knife making a quick tattoo with the rapid-fire motion.
Jessica said, “You know, I make it a policy not to insult anyone with a weapon in his hands.”
“Meh.” Unconcerned, Misty lifted a shoulder.
“Idiota!” Flashing Misty a condemning look, Armando turned so that his back was to her, effectively shunning her as he concentrated on his work and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
Undaunted by the cook’s disregard for her, Misty continued with her litany of complaints. “Marlon. He’s the busboy? Always late. Considers himself some kind of Romeo and is out tomcatting, so he can never get here on time. A real pain in the ass, let me tell you.” To emphasize the fact, she rattled the silverware tray, then started wrapping table knives, forks, and spoons into paper napkins, creating individual settings and stacking them neatly near the glassware. “Besides all that, the tips are lousy and this”—she pointed to the dishware she’d carefully prepared—“is not my job.” With a glance over her shoulder to the back door, where a boy who looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed was striding through, she pasted on a false smile and said, “Good morning, Casanova.”
“What’s good about it?” he countered.
“Well, now that I think about it, nothing. But you owe me half an hour’s wages!” She quit stacking the silverware to glare at him, one hand on a hip.
“So I owe you. Sue me.” The kid, like Armando, seemed inured to Misty’s barbs and went about rummaging in the linen closet near the back door, where he found a clean apron and began cinching it over his black jeans and once-white shirt. His hair, a bristly brown, had been gelled into unruly stiff peaks, his face clean shaven, his build that of a middleweight wrestler, not an ounce of fat on him.
“Yeah, you owe me all right,” Misty agreed. “The way I figure it, you’re up to about a year’s salary, but I won’t hold my breath. You can finish with the silverware and you’d better hop to. We’re opening the doors in fifteen and you know the regulars, they don’t like to wait.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed her, but had taken over the duties of organizing the flatware and dishes.
Satisfied, Misty whispered to Jessica, “He’s hopeless,” then pushed through the swinging doors to the dining area where tables were scattered between a long L-shaped counter and the windows. Behind the counter was a walkway with a scarred floor covered with rubber mats. Along one wall was a narrow ledge that housed the coffee and milkshake machines, the soda dispenser, tubs for dishes, and rows of condiments like soldiers beside them.
Misty’s waitressing lessons began then. “Okay, so let’s start with the coffee since the customers that are already driving here will expect it to be ready. Fresh every day. Every hour. You think you can handle that?” She was teasing. Sort of, but she thought she was the only person capable of running the diner. “We need two pots of regular brewed and ready to go by the time we open the doors, oops, in less than twelve minutes.” She eyed the big schoolhouse clock positioned near the door. “I always have a pot of decaf ready, too, for the wimps who want to start their day with ‘unleaded,’ for whatever reason. Then I check the pots every fifteen minutes during the rush. Marlon is supposed to be on top of it, but I don’t trust him. He’s too busy flirting with the customers or checking his cell phone for his next hot date. If Nell gets here and finds the coffeepots empty, there will be hell to pay, but Marlon doesn’t care. ’Cause he’s Nell’s nephew. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be fired. Punk kid. Once the crush is over, like I said, every hour.”
Jessica watched Misty measure coffee into the pots.
“Gotta be careful here. Don’t put too much in, y’know. We’re famous for our weak coffee, but if I make it any stronger, Nell’s all over me. Cuts into profits, y’know.”
“I think I can handle this.” Jessica started filling the basket for the decaf. “But if it’s so miser
able, why do you stay?”
“Good question.” Misty took an empty glass pot and carried it to a nearby sink for a refill. As she shut off the water, she pretended to think for a second. “Must be because I’m a masochist.”
As she carried her tray into the dining area, Jessica couldn’t help but think about Dan Grayson and the fact that he’d died. She’d been prepared to talk to him, to confess, and when she’d discovered that he was hospitalized, she’d decided that she’d have to deal with Cade instead because she couldn’t spill her guts to just anyone. It was more imperative than ever that she ask Cade for direction. A once-upon-a-time lover, Cade Grayson was one of the few people in the world she could trust. Well, at least she hoped so. Truth to tell, she and he hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
Cade would be deep into mourning and, if she bared her soul to him, she would take a chance that he wouldn’t believe her, wouldn’t trust her, or give her the benefit of the doubt.
But who else?
At least Cade was a person who could understand deception, even twisting the law a bit.
He was her last chance.
That is, if she decided to stay in Grizzly Falls.
But what else could she do?
Run, she supposed as she pinned a smile on her face and started distributing the coffee and tea to her customers seated at table five. “Your orders should be up in a minute,” she told them.
“Oh, could I please get a little honey for my tea?” the round-faced woman at the table asked.
“Sure. No problem.” Jessica turned back to the counter where the packets of condiments were kept and vowed to herself that she was done running, that she was through looking over her shoulder and always having one foot out the door.
Finding the honey packets, she grabbed several and as she carried them back to the table, prayed she could keep that promise to herself.
“What happened?” Jeremy, who had been staring into the refrigerator, swung the door closed as Pescoli walked into her house and Cisco, her dog, went into his usual frenetic routine. The little terrier mix was dancing circles at her feet as she unzipped her jacket and left her boots on the patch of linoleum by the back door. From the living room, the television was tuned to a reality show.
“Bad day,” she said, and bent down to pet the excited yapping dog. Cisco’s tail was wagging in a blur, and he licked Pescoli’s cheek as if he hadn’t seen her in years rather than hours. Sturgis, Dan Grayson’s black lab, climbed out of his bed and stood at her feet as well, his tail moving side to side, his dark eyes looking up at hers as if he understood. “I’m sorry,” she said, scratching him behind his ears. “Oh, buddy.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve got bad news.” Sturgis’s long tail slowed and he stared straight into her eyes as if he understood. Her heart fractured and she felt near to tears.
Hormones, she told herself... and grief. Sniffling, she straightened and found her son staring at her.
“Then it’s true,” Jeremy said. “About the sheriff?”
“Yeah, it’s true.” She cleared her throat. Willed her tears away. “He passed today.”
“Shit. I mean . . . damn . . .”
She didn’t bother saying anything about his language.
“I can’t believe it!”
She nodded in silent understanding.
Jeremy’s expression grew dark and he swore again, under his breath. Then he leaned hard against the counter where the remains of breakfast—two empty bowls and a half-eaten piece of toast left on a napkin—had spent the day.
“That bastard really killed him?” His jaw was set, reminding Pescoli of her first husband, Joe Strand, Jeremy’s father. As her son matured, he looked more and more like his dad and the funny thing was he even displayed some of Joe’s mannerisms, though he’d never really known his father, surely couldn’t remember him. They shared the same build, though Jeremy topped his father’s six-foot frame by about two inches and his features were still slightly softer than she remembered Joe’s were, but the way he threw a ball, or looked over his shoulder? Pure Joe Strand. That part didn’t bother her. No. The bad news, at least in her opinion, was that Jeremy had decided to follow in his father’s footsteps by becoming a cop. Just like his dad. Even though his father had lost his life in the line of duty.
Don’t blame Joe. You’re on the force, too. A cop’s life is all your son has ever known.
Some of the blame definitely rested on her shoulders.
Though Pescoli loved the fact that he was enrolled in school again and was thrilled that he finally seemed to have some direction, she hated the idea of him becoming a member of the police force after seeing what the dedication to protecting and serving had done to their own family.
How often had she rued her vocation? Yeah, she loved being a cop, but she’d be a fool if she didn’t admit that the stress and long hours of her job hadn’t taken their toll on parenting her kids.
And now there’s going to be another one. Oh, Lord.
“But didn’t you say he was improving?” Jeremy asked. “How could this happen?”
“I guess he was more fragile than anyone, the doctors included, realized. The doc in charge, Zingler, he’s double-checking everything,” she said but didn’t add that what really bothered her was that there were two patients who had flatlined about the same time. The first, just seconds before Grayson, happened to a patient named Donnerly who had over thirty years on Grayson. But he’d survived. Of course, he hadn’t suffered the same kind of attack as the sheriff, but Pescoli couldn’t help but wonder if the heart stoppages had happened in the reverse order, if Grayson flatlining had been the first emergency, would the hospital staff have been quicker to respond? Would he have survived? It just didn’t sit well with her.
“So, what happens now?” Jeremy wanted to know.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s not good down at the station. Morale is at an all-time low, and that’s saying something.” She hung up her jacket on the hall tree and noticed the snow on her boots was already melting, making puddles. “Everyone’s upset. Even Joelle isn’t interested in decorating for Valentine’s Day, which is probably a good thing, because Blackwater definitely isn’t into it.” She scowled remembering his recent edict about keeping the offices spotless and professional at all times. That would be a trick considering the drunks, suspects, informants, criminals, and general scum of the earth who were dragged through the hallways of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department on a daily basis. “Hopefully he’s only temporary.”
“You don’t like him because he’s taking Grayson’s job,” Jeremy pointed out.
“That’s not it. Well, not all of it.”
“I don’t think he’s all that bad.”
She glared at her son as if he’d uttered sacrilege, which he had. “You’re only there part-time. Very part-time. As a volunteer. You don’t really work for him.”
“Yet.” Jeremy caught his mother eyeing the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar and actually picked up the two bowls and placed them into the sink with the stack of ever-mounting pots, pans, and plates. Of course, he couldn’t quite seem to find the dishwasher, but, Pescoli reminded herself, baby steps.
Not that long ago, her son was adrift, playing video games all day, smoking weed on the side, and chewing tobacco. Things were improving. He was growing up. Yeah, he still chewed. And of course, he continued to play video games, but even that had slowed down a bit and she thought his pot smoking had abated. Thinking about it, she unconsciously crossed her fingers.
As far as she could tell, Jeremy’s general “hanging out” with some of his suspect friends had tapered off and his steady girlfriend of the past few years had moved away, thank God. It had only been a few weeks, but without Heidi Brewster as a distraction, Jeremy already seemed more focused.
His job at Corky’s Gas and Go coupled with volunteering at the station kept him busy and he was talking about moving out with a friend. Again. So far, he’d bounced back after a couple half-assed att
empts at living on his own. She’d already suggested that he move into the room over the garage in Santana’s new home, but Jeremy had balked. Residing in any building attached to his mother’s place of residence obviously didn’t qualify as “moving out.”
Considering her own rebellious history as a teen, she wasn’t about to argue.
He saved your life.
That much was true. If it hadn’t been for Jeremy taking aim at Grayson’s killer during an attack, she wouldn’t be alive.
“Give Blackwater a chance,” Jeremy suggested, opening the refrigerator door and hanging on it again, as if somehow the contents within had changed in the last five minutes. “I think he’s a good guy.”
“We’ll see.” She wasn’t convinced.
He discovered a previously overlooked slab of pie that had to be a week old and pulled it from the depths. “Since we can’t have Grayson back,” he said soberly.
She nodded, swallowed, then checked her watch. “So where’s your sister?”
“At Lana’s. Studying,” he added dryly.
“Ahh. Well, you know, they could be.”
He grabbed a fork that had been left near the sink, then carried the pie into the living room and plopped onto the worn couch. “They could be,” he allowed. Both dogs, hoping he might drop a bit of food, followed at a brisk trot and positioned themselves at his feet, their ears cocked, their eyes beseeching.
“You know something I should?” Pescoli asked, following him into the living room.
“Just a gut feeling. Kinda like your cop instinct.”
“Does she need a ride?”
“What she needs is a car.”
“So she tells me. Every day.” She found her cell phone to text her daughter.
“Lucky says she can have one. He’ll buy it for her.”
“And the insurance? And the gas?” Pescoli hated the fact that her ex could offer up extravagant gifts with no strings attached and, when they didn’t work out, leave her to pick up the pieces and deal with the fallout.