by Lisa Jackson
When he finally lifted his head, a cocksure smile twisting his lips, she said, “That’s better.”
“Not better,” he returned as she started down the plywood steps. “The best.”
“If you say so.”
“I know so.”
“Egomaniac,” she called up the unfinished staircase and hurried outside where the sun was blazing, the snow a shimmering white, and her Jeep damn near frozen solid.
Montana in winter.
Glorious.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Alvarez demanded an hour later as Pescoli suddenly rushed to the bathroom from Alvarez’s office where the two partners had been going over new information on the case.
Upon her return, Alvarez eyed her closely. “You coming down with something?”
Pescoli, white faced, shook her head. “Santana and I celebrated a little too much last night,” she lied.
“What about the other times? All of a sudden you can’t view dead bodies without losing your lunch? Is it the flu? What—”
“I’m pregnant, okay?” Pescoli said through her teeth. She went to Alvarez’s office door and pushed it shut.
“Holy moly.” Alvarez stared at her.
“I know. My kids are grown. I could be a grandmother in a few years. I’m only telling you because we spend so much time together. I haven’t even confided in my kids yet. So far, just Santana knows. Now, you. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t convinced that I’d even have another baby. Not with Santana. Not with anyone. My kids . . . are going to be dumbstruck. Worse than even you are.”
Alvarez shook her head. “Wow. You’re sure?”
“I took a bunch of in-home tests and they all turned out positive. I’m late, and feeling like crap, emotional as hell and tossing my cookies in the morning, so yeah, I’m pregnant. I go to the doctor next week.”
“Well . . . congratulations.”
“Thanks. You’ll keep this to yourself?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
“No wonder you’ve been all over Blackwater.”
“What do you mean?” Pescoli bristled.
“You’re pregnant. Emotional. Grayson’s death, and Blackwater stepping in. You’re not handling it well.”
“Like you are?”
“I don’t like Blackwater, but I deal with him. He’s the boss, and unless I think he’s handling things all wrong or crooked or neglectful, I’ll keep dealing with him. Do I miss Dan Grayson? You bet. Do I wish he was still alive, still running this department? Every damn day. But that’s not the way it is, and me having my own personal snit fit about it isn’t going to change it.”
“I haven’t been having snit fits,” Pescoli snapped.
“I just gave you a pass for being pregnant. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Snit fits . . .” she muttered.
Alvarez almost laughed. “Are you going to stay on the force? You were thinking about cutting back, but now ... ?”
“I don’t know. I’m still dealing with the news,” Pescoli admitted. “I just told Santana this week, and as I said, my kids are still in the dark. Santana wants to move up the wedding to like, yesterday, but”—she turned both palms upward, toward the ceiling—“there’s a lot to figure out and it’s not like I’m not buried here.”
“You have to have a life. We both have to have lives.”
“I was going to talk my hours over with Grayson when . . .” Closing her eyes for a second, she drew in a long breath. “Well, you know. Anyway, we’ve got this case we need to figure out.”
Alvarez nodded.
“Let’s just get through today. It’s going to be a rough one, right?”
It was a rhetorical question that didn’t require an answer. A funeral was never easy. This one, not only for a fallen officer but for a mentor as well, would be especially tough. Grayson had been an officer who had epitomized everything Alvarez believed was the essence of a true lawman. He had also been the person she’d fallen for, the one who had taught her to trust again. And that was the truth of it . . . until Dylan O’Keefe had reentered her life and shown her what real love could be. Nonetheless, the service was going to be emotionally ravaging. Already, she felt that awful pang deep in her heart again, the one reserved for Sheriff Dan Grayson.
She took a deep breath and put the conversation back on track. “We should get an answer from AFIS soon about the prints, if the killer is in the system.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was usually fairly quick. Now that they had a full print, there might be a match in the database that held millions of prints on file.
Pescoli said, “Let’s hope.” There was a chance that the prints only matched each other, that the culprit had never been printed, and therefore couldn’t be identified. If so, they were back to square one.
“I got hold of Reggie,” Alvarez told her. “Actually Reginald Larue the Third. He lives in Spokane and admitted to dating Calypso. Nearly fell into a million pieces when I mentioned that we found a body we think could be hers. Couldn’t get off the phone fast enough and is even now on his way to ID the body. He sounded shocked and very upset. He claims both of her parents are already dead and she has no siblings. No kids, no ex-husband, at least that she told him about. As far as he knows, he’s the closest thing to family she has.”
“What about a job?”
“She was a consultant. An engineer. Worked with road crews. Again, on her own. A one woman show.”
“The Teflon woman. No one sticks to her.”
“At least according to Reggie. I checked the call log and text log on her phone. He was the last one who tried to contact her at two twenty-three in the morning. That’s when the last text was sent, all of them more and more pleading, asking her to call him and forgive him. Here they are, printed out.” Alvarez slid the pages to Pescoli. “I double-checked with his cell phone carrier. His phone was in Spokane when he sent them. I thought there was a chance he might be trying to call or text her after she was dead to throw us off, but the phone, at least, was in Spokane, or so it seems. I can’t say that he was actually there.”
“No alibi?”
“He’s got one and it’s pretty interesting. A woman.”
“Another woman was with him that night?” Pescoli asked. “As in all night?”
“So they both claim.”
“But now he’s in a million pieces about Calypso?”
“Seemed real, but I’ll find out. I’m meeting him at the morgue before the funeral. There’s enough time for questions, I think.”
“Should be interesting,” Pescoli said.
They discussed the case a little while longer, then each went their separate ways. Pescoli was all about getting her kids ready for the sad event while Alvarez returned to her condo to meet Dylan. He would be her rock during the service.
At least with him at her side, she could get through the event without completely falling apart . . . she hoped. Usually, she was the cool, level-headed detective and kept her emotions under tight rein.
Dan Grayson’s death had changed all that.
Chapter 20
Pescoli had dreaded this day from the minute she heard the sheriff had died.
She was dressed in full uniform, Sturgis with her. The idea had been Joelle Fisher’s, and for once, Pescoli had agreed with the receptionist that Sturgis’s presence would be fitting as the dog had been constantly at Grayson’s side, in or out of the office. Sturgis was part of the department, too, and he always behaved himself.
With a quick look around the crowded auditorium of Pinewood Center, she located her children standing together in the center of one section of chairs. Santana wasn’t with them, but that was no surprise as they weren’t yet a family. In fact, she wondered if there ever would be a time where they existed cohesively . . . and doubted it. She finally found him amidst the standing room only throng, near enough to the wide set of double doors at the back to satisfy the fire marshal.
She moved to the section res
erved for law enforcement, where she and her fellow officers would stand during the service.
Though there had been a hum of conversation rising to the tall ceiling before the funeral got underway, a hush fell over the mourners as Blackwater approached the podium and introduced himself. Without any fanfare, he gave the opening remarks about the dedication and service of Dan Grayson. He was sincere and true, without any self-promotion and his remarks were surprisingly spot-on without the usual aggrandizing of the dead’s accomplishments. No flowery phrases. No inordinate sentimentality. He called Grayson a straight shooter who was respected by his peers and those who worked for him, and stated that the sheriff was embraced by the community that had elected him. Blackwater summed up by saying that Sheriff Daniel Grayson would be missed by those he worked with and those he worked for, and that the community had lost an honest, kind, and dedicated officer of the law.
Pescoli grudgingly had to admit Grayson would have approved of the acting sheriff’s remarks.
Flanked by flags of the United States and the State of Montana, a huge picture of the sheriff hung from a wall of navy-blue draping in the front of the hall. In the headshot, Grayson wasn’t smiling, his stern expression offering none of the warmth that had epitomized the man. His sense of humor, his calm hand in running the department, the love he had for the dog at her side weren’t evident.
Considering Pescoli’s emotional state, it was probably a good thing. She, like so many others jammed into the large room, remembered him for the level-headed and kind man he was.
Officers from other jurisdictions as well as the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, the city of Grizzly Falls’ Police Department, and the Montana State Police were in attendance. Friends and family, townspeople, and neighbors filled the large hall to overflowing.
As she listened to the eulogy given by the chaplain, Pescoli caught glimpses of the wives and husbands of the officers, as well as Trace O’Halleran and Dr. Kacey Lambert along with Grace Perchant and Ivor Hicks. For once, Hicks was quiet, not causing a scene. She hoped he could maintain as much for the duration of the service.
Pescoli noticed Manny Douglas, the reporter for the local paper, taking notes. God, the guy has no couth.
Sandi from Wild Will’s was in attendance, as was the owner of Dino’s, the local pizza parlor. Pescoli recognized the local veterinarian and the pharmacist. There were several hundred people she didn’t know along with more than a sprinkling of familiar faces.
The Grayson family was seated front and center, everyone dressed in black, each member grim-faced. Dan’s brothers Cade and Big Zed were seated with Hattie, Bart’s ex-wife. She was fighting a losing battle with tears, a tissue wadded in her fist. Her girls were also part of the group.
Nearby, both of Dan’s ex-wives, neither of which Pescoli cared much for, sat ramrod straight. Akina Bellows, seated next to her current husband, Rick, remained dry-eyed, but sober. Their one-year-old daughter, squirming slightly, was seated on Akina’s lap.
Dan Grayson’s first wife, Cara, a petite woman who was related to Hattie—Pescoli frowned. Maybe a half sister or something?—sat stiffly next to her husband, Nolan Banks. Their daughter, Allison, who was a little younger than Bianca, sat between her father and brothers and was fiddling with her cell phone despite what appeared to be several reprimands from her father. Nolan’s jaw tightened and finally he rolled his palm toward the ceiling and wiggled his fingers, silently indicating she should hand over the phone. The girl, ever-petulant, slid the offensive cell into a small clutch purse.
Pescoli suspected Allison was her own kind of trouble. Ezekiel and Isaiah, Nolan’s sons from a previous marriage, were leaning forward, elbows on their knees. Both boys, around college age, looked uncomfortable as they whispered and pulled at their collars and ties.
It seemed as if everyone in town had come to pay their respects. The chairs were all full, mourners spilling out into the hallway and anteroom.
After the chaplain, Cade and Zed approached the podium. While Zed didn’t say a word, Cade offered up some anecdotes about Dan Grayson, the man and the brother. Cade’s voice broke as he admitted he’d looked up to Dan, who had often been his ideal and sometimes even a father figure. Dan could get mad enough, but he’d always been able to see the clear path and had helped his hellion of a brother find his way, too.
After a prayer, there was a solo of “Amazing Grace” by Frannie Hendrickson, who led a choir at the Methodist church on Sundays and was known for her purple wig and karaoke renditions at the Tin Roof Saloon in Missoula on Saturday nights. Today, her hair was black, as were her dress and heels, her voice a clear and pure soprano that rose to the rafters.
Once again, Pescoli felt teary. She patted Sturgis’s head and the damn dog licked her hand, then leaned against her. At that moment, she knew that she’d keep the black lab until his dying day. Until then, she’d thought one of Dan’s brothers might want the dog, but it no longer mattered. Sturgis was hers and would be a living reminder of the sheriff. She caught Santana’s eye just before the last prayer and he gave her an encouraging smile and small wink that somehow made her heart swell despite her sadness. Her throat clogged at how suddenly grateful she was to be marrying him.
With the back of one finger she swiped away her tears and mentally reminded herself to toughen up, that if the chaplain were to be believed, Dan Grayson was in “a better place.” She wasn’t certain about that, but it was a nice idea and she liked to think it was true even if she didn’t quite believe it.
Once the service had concluded with another quiet prayer, the flag-draped coffin was wheeled out of the hall by the pallbearers—Grayson’s brothers and four officers from the department.
Pescoli, the dog in tow, left the hall and found her kids outside. They were standing close together, talking, their breath visible in the air as they waited by Jeremy’s pickup, which was parked in the side lot. She and Sturgis made their way to the truck.
“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“ ’Course,” Jeremy said. He’d even dressed for the occasion in a long-sleeved striped shirt and slacks that could’ve stood a pressing, but hey, a vast improvement over his sweats or jeans and sloppy football jersey. He’d found an old suit coat of his father’s that was a little short in the sleeves and slightly faded, but at least he’d taken the time to appear presentable. Bianca, starting to think of herself as a fashionista, was dressed in a short charcoal gray dress with matching leggings and a black coat that hit her at the knees, just an inch above her boots.
“Are you coming to the cemetery?” Pescoli asked them.
“No,” Bianca said quickly.
“Yes, we are,” Jeremy disagreed. He shot his sister a look that suggested she not argue.
“I don’t see why.” Bianca started to go into her petulant routine.
“Because Mom worked for him, and so did I and like, duh”—Jeremy motioned toward Sturgis—“we’ve got his dog.” He was firm as he strode to the driver’s side of his truck. “We’re going, Bianca. Get in.”
Bianca’s shoulders slumped as if she were an eight-year-old being punished and sent to her room.
Pescoli said, “I think it’s a good idea. Respectful. Dan Grayson was good to all of us.”
“Let’s go,” Jeremy yelled from behind the wheel and fired the engine before slamming his door shut.
“Great,” Bianca grumbled but climbed into her brother’s rig as Pescoli made her way to her own Jeep.
Santana was waiting for her. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked, hitching his chin toward Jeremy’s truck as it wheeled out of the lot.
“Nothing serious.” She didn’t want to go into it.
Santana picked up on it. “You want to ride to the cemetery together?”
“Yes. Please. That would be great.” It felt good to let someone else take charge, if only for a little while. “But there’s three of us,” she said, indicating Sturgis.
Santana’s dark eyes sparkled in the sun. �
��I’m used to that. Come on.” He walked her to the passenger side. She handed him her keys and slid into the Jeep. Sturgis hopped inside.
They drove to the cemetery in a long procession and Pescoli stared out the window. Once they were through the city with its plowed streets and piles of graying snow, they passed by broad fields spangled beneath the bright sun. The cemetery was located on a hill outside the city limits that angled softly upward and offered a view of the valley and the town sprawled below. Tombstones half buried in snow sprouted from the frozen ground and two roads bisected the graves. Ahead was a fresh plot—dark earth turned over in the snow, an oblong hole in the ground surrounded by several floral sprays, a small tent, and fake grass.
Fewer people had made the trek to the cemetery, though a bevy of vehicles were parked and mourners trudged through six inches of frigid powder to stand at Dan Grayson’s final resting spot. The chaplain said a few more words and led another prayer. The Grayson family sat in a sober group near the grave.
Pescoli’s stomach knotted at the finality of it all. When the guns were fired in salute, she fought a fresh spate of tears. Sturgis didn’t so much as whimper as the rifles blasted and afterward the dog, head down, followed Pescoli obediently to Santana’s truck.
It was over.
For everyone.
Sheriff Dan Grayson had been laid to rest.
Jessica woke Sunday morning feeling tired all over, and at work, the diner was a madhouse. While Saturday had been a little slow, the crowd had returned for Sunday breakfast, brunch, lunch, and then later for dinner.
Nell was beside herself, delighted that the receipts were keeping the register busy. “This is just what we needed,” she said, grinning.