by Lisa Jackson
Anne-Marie was dying inside. She’d bared her soul to him. Stupidly.
“You told me how much she meant to you. So, it’s not making a whole lot of sense to me that instead of running to her and confiding in her, asking for her help and protection, or insisting she take you to the police, you decided to steal from her. From the one woman you swore you adored.”
Anne-Marie’s throat clogged and she fought tears. The biggest regret in her life had been sneaking in the back door when she’d known her grandmother was sleeping in the next room and with nervous fingers opening the safe that was hidden behind a shelf in the pantry. But she had. When the safe had opened, she’d scooped up the bills that had been stacked so neatly within, money she’d used to escape, to buy her vehicle, to purchase her new identity, to visit a dentist for appliances and a costume store for the extra padding and wigs. And for the doctor in Oklahoma City. “I can’t go back,” she said again.
His expression hardened. “Maybe not willingly,” he said, crossing the room.
“Not ever.” She met his uncompromising glare with one of her own. “You’ll have to shoot me. Your gun. My gun. It doesn’t matter, but I won’t go.”
“Fine.”
To her horror, he dragged a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and before she could move, he reached her and snapped them over her wrists. “We’re goin’, darlin’, and we’re goin’ right now.”
Chapter 26
The wipers weren’t keeping up with the falling snow, so Pescoli tried to turn them up, to increase their speed, but they were maxed out. The storm was just that fierce. “Global warming, my ass,” she muttered as the sign for the River View appeared through the thick, swirling flakes.
“Actually these storms and all the weird weather patterns we’ve been experiencing are the direct result of climate change.” Sometimes Alvarez could really be a buzz-kill.
Pescoli cranked the wheel and her Jeep slid a bit before they drove into the lot of the motel and parked under the broad portico that was, according to several signs posted near the front doors, reserved for guests of the facility.
Pescoli really didn’t give a rat’s ass what the protocol was.
Inside the brightly lit reception area of the motel, they waited as a hippy woman in a uniform finished a phone call, her fingers flying over the keys of a computer. The lobby was small and smelled of day-old coffee. One faux leather couch that had seen better days was situated near a stand of brochures describing highlights of the area.
“That does it,” the receptionist said with a smile wide enough to show off a gold molar. “So what can I do ya for?”
They introduced themselves, showing badges, and asked about Troy Ryder.
“A deputy was in earlier,” said the woman whose name tag read CARLA SIMMS. “I told them everything I knew.”
“I know, but we’d like to see for ourselves the room he stayed in,” Pescoli said.
“Ooookay.” The hippy woman checked her computer monitor again. “As I told the deputy, Mr. Ryder was in a king room with a view for a little over a week and didn’t bother anyone. If he had company, I didn’t see it. Truthfully, we here at the River View respect our guests’ privacy.”
“I’m sure,” Pescoli said, knowing first-hand about the policy.
“It’s already been cleaned. We’re quick about that, you know.” Carla was obviously proud of her work at the River View, as if this dive of a motel was a five-star hotel. She swept a walkie-talkie off the desk, hit a button, and said, “Can you send someone down to the reception?”
She’d barely hung up when a tiny woman appeared. She wore a puffy coat and a knit cap pulled low enough to brush the top of a red scarf wound around her neck. She couldn’t have been five feet tall and even in the heavy coat, she seemed diminutive. Pescoli felt like an Amazon next to her.
“Rhonda,” Carla said. “This is Detective Pescoli and . . . wait, I’m sorry—?”
“Alvarez,” Pescoli’s partner supplied.
“Yes, yes. Detective Alvarez. Would you please show the officers to room thirteen? It’s been cleaned, right?”
Rhonda nodded her head and began fiddling with a key ring as she led the officers outside and along a covered walkway to room thirteen, which supposedly had one of the sought-after river views.
To Pescoli’s way of thinking, it was all false advertising. The place was known to be clean and reasonable, nothing more. The old carpeting, and drapes that matched the bedspread, had to be from the nineties. Unfortunately, the receptionist hadn’t been mistaken and the tacky room had been cleaned, no trash, no bit of visible evidence left behind.
“Clean as a whistle.” Disappointed, Pescoli leaned down and looked under the bed while Alvarez checked the adjoining bath, then opened the sliding door to the small patio beyond.
“Same here,” Alvarez agreed.
The room looked tired and dated, but there was nothing to indicate that Troy Ryder or any other person had ever resided there.
“We’ll need to look through the trash,” she said. “It hasn’t been picked up yet?”
“Thursday.” The maid walked them outside where the snow had covered the parking lot and the few cars parked in front of the motel. The empty spot in front of room thirteen, where Ryder’s truck had been parked, had accumulated only a few inches over the asphalt. One other slot had the same level of snow. It had recently been vacated, only a thin layer covering the pavement.
“Mr. Ryder left early this morning,” Rhonda said. “I’m on the early shift and he was already gone, so I got the notice to clean his room first thing.” She tested the knob to make certain that the room was secure. “The same with his friend.”
“Friend?” Alvarez asked, exchanging looks with Pescoli. “What friend?”
“The guest in twenty-five. I don’t know his name. But he was always asking about Mr. Ryder.” She stopped talking abruptly as if she realized she was giving out too much information about customers who guarded their privacy.
Alvarez clarified, “A single man?”
“Yes. No one was with him,” the maid assured them, finding her voice again.
“And he hung out with Ryder?” Alvarez made a swirling motion with her finger. “You saw them together.”
Shaking her head, the petite woman wagged her head thoughtfully side to side. “I don’t know, but I never saw them together. They were both very private, holed up in their rooms. And the guest in room thirteen? Mr. Ryder? He never asked about the man in twenty-five, or anyone else that I know of.” She raised and lowered her shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. I was only here during my shifts and I was busy, you know.”
“But the other man checked out this morning?” Pescoli said. “What time?”
Rhonda said, “I don’t really know. He didn’t stop at the desk. Just left.”
Room twenty-five was around the corner from room thirteen, and offered a bird’s-eye view of Ryder’s activity. The parking area for that room had only a little snow in front of it, about the same level as thirteen.
“Has room twenty-five been cleaned yet?” Alvarez asked.
The maid shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Hmph.” Alvarez eyed the parking lot. “Mind if we look inside?”
“Okay.” The maid led the way along the long concrete porch and unlocked the room that was identical to the one Ryder had occupied.
Whoever had resided there had left in a hurry. The bill was still under the door. The bed was a tumble of blankets, and towels and hangers littered the floor. Trash was still in and around the waste baskets—newspapers and fast food wrappers, water bottles, paper cups, plastic packaging for some kind of headphones, and wadded up receipts from local stores.
“Didn’t he ever have the room cleaned?” Alvarez asked.
“No. Both he and the man in number thirteen asked for no service. I talked to each of them and they refused.” Rhonda shrugged in a what’re-you-gonna-do manner. “The management doesn’t like it, but the guest’
s wishes are always granted.”
“We’re going to want to seal both rooms. We don’t want either of them cleaned any more,” Pescoli said.
Alvarez was looking at the billing that had been left. “I assume your guests have to register their vehicles at the front desk?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Good,” Alvarez said. “We need to see the registration for”—she met Pescoli’s gaze—“Mr. . . . Bryan Smith. I saw cameras outside. Does the motel keep the tapes?”
Rhonda shook her head. “The outside cameras are all for show. All they are is a red light to make it look like they’re filming. Just like the security signs about a company that is monitoring the place. It’s all just to make people think twice about stealing or loitering or whatever. The only cameras that work are in the lobby.”
Alvarez said, “Then we’ll need to see the lobby tapes.”
They left the room.
Arms wrapped around her, shoulders hunched against the cold, Rhonda led them toward the main building. “You’ll have to talk to Carla about that. She’s the manager.”
“We will,” Pescoli said as she tightened her scarf and wondered about Ryder’s “friend” in room twenty-five. She had a bad feeling about Bryan Smith. It didn’t make sense. Did the two men know each other? She doubted it. Could the maid have been wrong about a possible connection? Probably not. “Just seal the room, make certain it’s not cleaned.” She recalled Blackwater’s comment about Bruce Calderone, Anne-Marie Calderone, and Troy Ryder being in the plot together. Far-fetched, she’d thought, but maybe some part of it was true?
Rhonda was already on a walkie-talkie, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish.
Alvarez whipped out her cell phone. “I’ll get officers over here ASAP,” she told Pescoli as they headed back to the reception area.
Looking over the registration information in the River View’s lobby, they added a 1998 Ford Explorer with Texas plates to the APB they’d sent out earlier for Ryder’s Dodge pickup and asked for any and all security tapes from the motel’s archives, which, Carla told them proudly, were kept for a month.
As they walked back to the Jeep, Alvarez’s phone rang again.
“Do you have those head shots yet?” Blackwater asked, finding Zoller at her desk, her fingers on the keyboard of her computer. As a junior detective, she shared an open space with several other detectives, each desk area divided by half walls to create a cubicle.
“Yes, sir,” she said, hitting a few keys. Within seconds, a slide show of images appeared on her monitor, each essentially the same face and expression. The features were different in each, changing as they would look if artificially manipulated or permanently altered with surgery. The hairstyles were different, the cut and color changing, glasses added, contacts used to alter eye color, makeup to change the shadows of the cheekbones, eyebrows plucked or thickened, lips made fuller or thinned out, and the aging process factored in, just in case Anne-Marie Calderone had decided to disappear into middle-age. Twenty-five different shots rolled slowly by and with each one, Blackwater became more frustrated.
He was certain he’d seen her before. Would have sworn to it. Something about her eyes and shape of her face caused a memory to tug at his brain. He was good with faces, to the point that he never forgot one, so why then did he sense he’d met her but couldn’t quite recall?
One image swept by and he asked Zoller to freeze it. In the shot, the woman looked a good ten or fifteen years older. Her brown hair was short, her glasses rimless, her lips thin. “Can you make her blond? Not like before.” There had been several blondes in the lineup. “But this particular hairstyle.”
“Sure.” With a keystroke, the head shot was of a woman with pale hair.
Blackwater nodded. That seemed better. “And give this one the full lips.”
Again, Zoller altered the shot.
God, he knew he’d seen her. But where? He concentrated. It was important on a lot of levels. If Anne-Marie Calderone was found under his watch, and the detectives managed to prove a case against her, his job as sheriff would be secure. Solving the bizarre crime would attract lots of media attention. It was already happening, and it wasn’t just the local press. Papers and news agencies from as far away as Spokane and Boise were calling. If Anne-Marie Calderone, involved in bigamy and murder, were captured in Grizzly Falls, he might be hailed as a national hero . . . And if his team stopped a serial killer’s rampage? Though that kind of spotlight had never been his goal, he would take any means to become the next sheriff of Pinewood County. Any political ambitions after that would have to wait.
But first things first. They still needed to locate and capture Calderone.
“Anything else?” Zoller asked, looking up at him with her hands poised over the keyboard.
He heard footsteps in the hallway and turned to find the receptionist craning her neck around the corner. “Sheriff,” Joelle said with a tentative smile. “I don’t want to bother you, but Manny Douglas of the Mountain Reporter phoned for the third time this morning and I told him you’d call him back. If he calls again, I could refer him to the public information officer, but I’ve dealt with him before and he doesn’t seem to take the hint, if you know what I mean.” Her glossy red lips pursed. “The last time he called, less than two minutes ago, he said he was on his way to the station and was only five minutes away.”
Blackwater held back his initial annoyance and said, “I’ll phone him as soon as I’m done here. If he’s already here, give him coffee and let me know. I’ll talk to him. In my office.” The last thing he wanted to do at this point in his career was piss off a reporter.
She handed him a WHILE-YOU-WERE-OUT memo with Douglas’s name and number, then hurried off as a phone started ringing down the hallway.
As he folded the note and tucked it into his pocket, Blackwater swung his attention back to the screen. The break in his attention had given him a fresh perspective. As his eyes narrowed on the image, he felt a little sizzle of anticipation, and realized what was wrong, what had to change. To Zoller, he said, “Is it possible for you to change her teeth? Or her jawline? Give her more jowls?”
Concentrating so hard she bit into her lower lip, Zoller actually was able to draw on the screen with her mouse, the computer filling in the gaps or shaving off what she took off. She was able to change the contour of the face and add in some more crooked teeth so that in a matter of minutes, he was no longer staring at the face of Anne-Marie Calderone as pictured on her driver’s license. Instead, he was looking at a much dowdier, older appearing woman that he was certain he’d seen before.
“Darken her eyes.” He knew before Zoller had finished the change that he would be staring into the face of the waitress from the Midway Diner. Her name tag had read JESSICA, he remembered, but he would bet his badge she was the missing heiress, Anne-Marie Calderone.
Pescoli had already gotten a text from Bianca that there was no school today and, of course, her daughter was ecstatic, saying she was going back to bed for a while, then hoping to get a ride to a friend’s later. Driving back to the station, Pescoli hoped her daughter stayed put. As far as she knew, Jeremy was at home, probably still fast asleep and would be for a while. Good. At least for the morning, she needed not to worry about either of them.
She wheeled into the station’s parking lot and spied a spot in the thickening snow. “If this keeps up, Blackwater will have us all shoveling,” she said, cutting the engine. “I can see it now, part of his new military regimen to keep his officers in shape. Did I tell you I caught him in full uniform doing push-ups in his office? Told me it kept the blood flowing.”
“It does,” Alvarez said as she unbuckled her seat belt.
“Yeah, well, once up and showered, I’m not interested in getting my blood flowing,” Pescoli grumbled, climbing out of the car and spying Cade Grayson just parking his pickup in the visitor’s lot not far from the pole where the flag was still positioned at half-mast, Old Glory billowing in the falling sno
w. “Take a look.”
“Let’s see what he has to say.”
He wasn’t alone. As he hopped out of one side of the truck, his brother Zed, several inches taller and at least fifty pounds heavier, stepped his size fourteen boots into six inches of icy powder. Both men were dressed in thick outerwear and cowboy hats, the wide brims collecting a white dusting as they made their way to the officers.
“Got your message,” Cade said to Alvarez. “We were already in town, picking up supplies, so I thought it might be best to talk face-to-face.”
“Let’s go inside.” Alvarez led the way, and within minutes, they were seated at the conference table, hats removed, jackets unzipped, faces stern, coffee supplied by Joelle on the table, untouched. Alvarez had taken time to dash into her office to retrieve her files and Pescoli, as was her custom these days, had made a quick trip to the bathroom.
The brothers were obviously uncomfortable, whether it was because Cade was being questioned, or due to the fact that they were seated in the sheriff’s department, a door away from what had been Dan’s office.
“Is this about Bart?” Zed asked, bushy eyebrows pulling together. “We all know that Hattie won’t let that one go.” He sent his brother a glance that was unreadable, one that Cade tried to ignore.
“I did look through the case files on your brother’s suicide,” Pescoli said, taking in both brothers as they were seated across from her. “But I can’t find any reason to reopen the case. It looks to me that Bart took his own life. I’m sorry.”
“Not unexpected,” Zed said, his lips twisting down.
More, Pescoli thought, in disapproval of his ex-sister-in-law, than in disappointment about his brother’s cause of death.
“Hattie’s had a bug up her butt about it from the first but hell . . . we all just have to accept what happened. We may not like it, but it’s time to move on.” Pointedly, he glanced at the door leading to the office once occupied by his brother.
Cade’s gaze zeroed in on Alvarez. “Why did you call? You seemed to think it was pretty damn important.”