by Lisa Jackson
“If it isn’t Mrs. Grayson,” he said, pausing as she slipped from the outside to the inner vestibule and the exterior set of doors whispered shut behind her.
“How is he?” she asked, ignoring his attempt at getting under her skin.
His eyes darkened a shade. “The same.”
“You talked to the doctor?”
“Not yet.” His cockiness had evaporated. “I tried, but . . . you know. The nurses in ICU said they’d pass along the information that I wanted a call.”
“Maybe there’s just nothing new.”
“Probably.” His gaze shifted from her face, to the doors and night beyond. Jaw tightening, he added, “I guess I don’t have to be an ass.”
“You don’t have to be. You choose to be.”
“Ouch.” He actually winced.
“Let’s not do this,” she said. “I came here because I care about your brother, who just happens to be my brother-in-law. If you think that’s a crime, sorry, guilty as charged.” Cade’s expression darkened, and Hattie went on, “I don’t know what it is I do that pisses you off so much, but it’s your problem, not mine. And if I really looked at the issue long and hard, I think your attitude might have a lot to do with what happened between us.”
“That was a long time ago,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, it was. A long time ago. Long enough that we should get past it all.” She regarded him coolly, intent on not letting him get to her anymore. His eyes were dark, his pupils large in the dim light, his chin covered in a beard shadow that was somewhere between scruffy and sexy, and he stared at her as if he couldn’t believe that she’d thrown off her polite little shell to tear into him.
“I guess I might deserve that,” he allowed.
“You’ve been a real ass, Cade. It’s not my fault that Bart is dead, and it’s certainly not my fault that Dan is here. So quit blaming me.”
“I don’t.”
“Really,” she said between clenched teeth.
The doors from the hospital opened and an older man pushing a walker stepped through. He was accompanied by a woman who looked to be his daughter, as she, thirty years or so younger, was helping him guide the walker through the second set of doors. Hattie stepped out of their way, and in so doing put more distance between her body and Cade’s, so she could actually start breathing again.
Once the doors behind the couple had closed, she said, “I didn’t mean to get into it with you, but no matter what you think, I do care about Dan and this, what’s happened to him. It’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And I have this need to come and see him, to somehow convince myself that he’ll be okay.” When Cade didn’t respond, she said, “I don’t even know why I’m trying to explain myself. It’s not as if you’d believe me.” She started for the interior doors, when she felt his fingers clamp over her elbow.
“Hattie,” he said, his voice so soft she barely heard it.
Jerking her arm from his, she whipped around to stare him squarely in the face. When he didn’t immediately speak, she said wanly, “This is just so . . . exhausting.” Then she stepped through the doors and into the hospital lobby, hazarding one last glance over her shoulder, watching the exterior doors part. In the hazy blue glow of the security lamps, Cade walked quickly outside, kicking his pace into a jog as he crossed the parking lot to his truck.
Hattie attempted not to notice but found it impossible. She didn’t know whether she hated Cade or if her feelings ran in another direction entirely. But she didn’t have time to examine them now. After most of the day spent at the office, she’d gone home for dinner; then she’d felt compelled to drive to Missoula and see for herself that Dan was, if nothing else, stable.
Her mother had eagerly come to watch the girls again, and Hattie had already missed their bedtime, again, but she planned to make it up to the twins tomorrow. So thinking, she hurried through the second set of doors and stepped into the main vestibule of the quiet hospital and made her way to ICU where yet another deputy was guarding the outer area. A chill passed through her as she thought about anyone trying to kill the sheriff. Would the assassin try again? She hated to think so, but it was the question she’d read in the newspaper and seen on the news; she’d even heard speculation about it while grabbing a quick lunch at the local sandwich spot where two women who looked to be in their seventies were gossiping while a young waitress attempted to take their drink orders.
“. . . can’t believe they haven’t found whoever did it yet,” one of the women said to the waitress. Dressed in jeans and a Christmas sweater, she’d added, “It’s just awful! There’s just no respect these days, y’know. Oh . . . and I’ll have an iced tea. With extra lemons. Three slices.”
Her friend, a woman in a blond wig set in a 1950s “flip” style, nodded vehemently. “I know! It’s awful. To think, on Christmas morning! What’s the world coming to?”
“It’s probably an ex-con. Lord knows there are lots of those. And being the sheriff and all, he’s a major target.”
Blonde agreed. “You’d think the police would be all over it.”
“Would you like anything to drink?” the waitress interjected. Barely out of her teens, her hair pulled into a ponytail, she was standing on one foot, then the other, waiting for the women to order.
“Do you have Diet Coke?” the woman in the wig asked.
“Pepsi.”
“That’s fine, thanks. Oh, and a glass of water.”
Her friend agreed. “Yes, for me too. And don’t forget the extra lemons.”
“I’ll be right back to take your order,” the girl promised as she’d hurried to the drink station.
The woman in the wig had reached into her purse for a small vial of pills and shaken one tablet into her palm. “I’m just shocked that someone would take a potshot at the sheriff. I mean, hasn’t that family had enough to deal with? His younger brother, you know, hung himself a few years back. Left two little kids.”
Hattie had felt the muscles in her back tighten. She’d wanted to step in and say something in Bart’s defense, but she’d held her tongue rather than make a scene as she’d stood in line to order, deciding at that moment she’d take her Caesar salad to go.
Now, as she identified herself to the security guard, she wished she’d told those old hens exactly what she’d thought, but what was the point, really? Shoving her annoyance aside, she waited to be buzzed into the ICU, feeling compelled to be here, to even hold a vigil at Dan’s bedside, though she knew it would do no good.
But he deserved someone to care about him.
And she did.
She always had.
At first as a teenager in the throes of what her mother had called puppy love, or so she’d thought, and then over the years into something that ran much deeper. She touched the fingers of his left hand, to reassure him, but there was no response.
“Hi, Dan,” she whispered, blinking rapidly. “It’s me. Hattie.” She rubbed the tips of his fingers and felt her throat clog. “The girls and I, we can’t wait for you to come over again.” Her words caught in her throat and she wondered if that day would ever come.
Of course it will. It will just take time. He’s strong. In the prime of his life. A fighter!
She hoped for some sign that he was improving, that he’d heard her, but there was no rapid movement of his eyes beneath his lids, no twitch of his lips, no faint shift of his finger caught between hers.
“Just wanted you to know that we all love you,” she said. Then, realizing that there was nothing she could do for him, she reluctantly left the building and drove home through the cold, dark night.
He’ll be fine, she told herself over and over as her tires hummed against the frozen pavement and her headlights cast twin beams into the darkness. And yet, despite all of her encouragement to herself, she wondered if that were really true. Who had tried to kill him? she asked herself again. And, more chillingly, was the assassin planning to try again?
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nbsp; “I can’t believe you deputized my son!” Pescoli was livid as she stood over Cort Brewster’s desk, hands planted on its smooth edge, her gaze pinning the tall man to his chair. His office, just down the hall from Grayson’s, was slightly smaller and filled with bookcases that were stuffed with books on law enforcement, business, psychology, accounting, and a Bible. Between the volumes were pictures of Brewster and his family, the stepping stone blond girls at various ages, his diplomas and awards, even a few trophies used as bookends. One wall was covered with a map of the county, and the other, high above his desk and opposite the door, boasted a small, high window, above a credenza littered with more family photos.
His desk was neat, a picture of his wife front and center.
Pescoli got it: Brewster was a family man and proud of it.
“Hey, hold on. He wanted to volunteer and I agreed. He’s not a deputy, you and I both know that, but his title or duties are beside the point. He wants to work here and I said yes. You know, Pescoli, I’d think you’d want to thank me,” he said when she’d finished lambasting him. “That kid of yours has been searching for something to make of himself for a long time, and now he’s shown some interest in law enforcement and you’re ticked off.”
“You bet I am!”
“For the love of God, Pescoli, what’s with you? Quit enabling him and let him be his own man.”
“It’s not for you to say!” Pescoli sputtered.
“He’s twenty years old and you keep trying to run his life.”
“ ‘That kid’ you mentioned is still trying to find himself,” Pescoli declared, fighting back the urge to rant and rave. “And he has some whacked-out notion that he wants to follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“Or his mother’s.”
“What if your daughter came to me and wanted to be deputized?” she threw back at him. “How would you feel about that?”
Brewster rose from his chair and his face turned red. “Leave Heidi or any of my kids out of this. You’re deflecting, Pescoli. It’s your boy and he came to me. I didn’t go looking for him. He wants to do his part, and I said, ‘okay.’ Actually, more like ‘Hallelujah. Finally.’ ”
“As if you care.”
“Let him grow a pair.”
“I can’t believe this. And why would you want to help him anyway? You’ve always been on his case, letting me know what a loser he is. No. Uh-uh. This makes no sense.”
“I’ve never said he was a loser.”
“Oh, yeah, I think so. Or at the very least implied it.”
“I just think that you haven’t let him be the man he could be. It’s not him I have a problem with. It’s really you.”
“Then don’t take it out on my kid!”
“I’m not. I’m helping him, and if you weren’t so damned bullheaded, Pescoli, you’d see it.”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
“It is when he’s dating my daughter and when he comes into my office and wants to help.” Brewster’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and he looked about to explode with that same hatred that always seemed to appear whenever they were talking about their kids. Then, as if he suddenly realized where they were and how out of hand the conversation had become, he looked away to gather himself. After letting out a long breath, he was calmer again. “We’re getting off course here. Let’s take you and me and our kids out of this equation.”
“We’re talking about my son.”
“Yes, but hear me out,” Brewster said, holding up a hand as if to physically stop her from spouting any further arguments. “We’re not talking about an exclusive club here. Jeremy’s not the only person who was deputized yesterday, or at least asked to help out. Informally, we ‘deputized’ half a dozen citizens. If you’ve forgotten, not only are we looking for someone who tried to kill the sheriff, but we’re short-handed on top of that since Van Droz is still on a leave of absence. Who knows if she’ll return?”
Though she wanted to, Pescoli couldn’t argue that point. Trilby Van Droz was one of the best cops on the force, and she’d threatened to quit after her last near-death experience. Grayson had refused her resignation, talking Van Droz into taking some time over the holidays to rethink her position and consider her options.
Brewster continued, “We’re down two officers, counting the sheriff, and a few others are on vacation. It’s the end of the year, and there are people on holiday leave, not to mention that with the bad weather and uptick in domestic issues that always occur this time of year, we’re stretched thin. Real thin. I figured we’ll deputize a few who asked to be, and even though they’re not on the payroll or officially part of the staff, they can help. Your kid volunteered. You should be proud, instead of going off half-cocked. That’s your problem: never keeping a level head. You’re a rogue, Regan, and it doesn’t work for me. Just calm the hell down.”
Damn it all to hell, Brewster was right, on too many levels.
Sensing capitulation in her silence, he added, “As I said, you should thank me.”
She wasn’t going to go that far.
“Okay. Now, we both have a helluva lot of work to do. If you want to talk about this when we’re not in the middle of a crisis, fine, but for now—”
“Sheriff?” a woman’s voice said from somewhere behind Pescoli. Straightening, she turned to find Sage Zoller holding on to the edge of the doorframe and sticking her head into the room. “Sorry to bother you, but it looks like they’ve found Judge Samuels-Piquard,” she said solemnly. Obviously the news wasn’t good.
“Is she all right?” he asked, but Zoller was already shaking her head, dark curls shivering around her face.
“She’s dead, sir. Found less than two miles from the cabin where she was staying. Looks like a gunshot wound.”
“She was murdered?” Pescoli said in disbelief, the fears that had been fractured in the back of her brain suddenly gelling.
“I was afraid of this,” Brewster said soberly. “I sent Watershed up there, but he didn’t see anything. Nothing was disturbed . . . I should have known. Pressed it.”
Pescoli met the undersheriff’s gaze and for the first time since striding into his office, she wasn’t angry. “God, Cort, I’m sorry. The judge was a friend of yours.”
“Of my wife’s.” He was nodding. “I was close with her husband, George, while he was alive. We served together. Damn. This is going to kill Bess.” He reached for his jacket, hanging on a peg near the door. “Does the press know?”
“I doubt it, but I’m not sure,” Zoller said, stepping out of the doorway so that he could pass. “I just got the call.”
“I need to stop by the house and talk to Bess. Then I’ll be up there.”
“I’m on my way,” Pescoli said. “What’s the address of the cabin?”
“It’s in the mountains. Somewhere north of Elk Basin, right?” Brewster said to Zoller. “On Spangler Road?”
“Monarch,” Zoller corrected, mentioning the spur. “2700 Monarch. According to the deputies that are out there, it’s not much of a road. Dead end. Only a couple of cabins anywhere near it.”
Pescoli was already out of Brewster’s office and on the hunt for Alvarez, who, as usual, was seated at her desk, phone to her ear, computer monitor showing the most recent report on an older model SUV, which, Pescoli saw, was registered to Wanda Verdago, Maurice’s wife.
“Let’s go,” she said, catching Alvarez’s attention. Her partner looked up, her phone still pressed to her ear. “Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s body has been found in the foothills.”
“Oh, no,” Alvarez said, then switched her attention back to her phone call. “Sorry. Gotta run. Just e-mail me the report. Thanks!” Hanging up, she twirled in her chair and was on her feet, reaching for her jacket, sidearm, and hat. “What the hell happened?” she asked as together they headed toward the back of the hallway, both skirting around Joelle hurrying the other way. The receptionist, like everyone else in the department, had been grim since the attack on Grayson,
her spirits flagging; though, Pescoli noticed, Joelle was wearing the stupid little holly earrings that Pescoli had bought her, part of her ridiculous “Secret Santa” campaign she organized every holiday season. Today, with Grayson in the hospital and Samuels-Piquard found dead, and Christmas a day past, the tradition seemed even more foolish than ever.
Chapter 15
“You’d think they could have told us this to begin with,” Alvarez complained as she clicked off her phone in the passenger seat of Pescoli’s Jeep.
She was antsy, and it didn’t help her mood that they’d almost reached Judge Samuels-Piquard’s cabin only to be rerouted to backtrack along an old mining road that wound closer to the crime scene. Alvarez had taken the directions while Pescoli put her rig into four-wheel drive and the Jeep had scaled the steep, overgrown road that already showed a single set of tracks from another vehicle.
For most of the drive to the judge’s retreat, Alvarez had been on the phone, still tracking down the whereabouts of Maurice Verdago. The fact that he’d disappeared so quickly after the attack on Grayson was more than suspicious, a very unlikely coincidence in Alvarez’s mind.
To make things more difficult, cell phone service was sketchy in these hills, and of course, Verdago’s friends and family were being of no help whatsoever.
It was frustrating as hell.
While Pescoli seemed to be zeroing in on Grayson’s first ex-wife, Alvarez was checking and double-checking on the violent offenders that Grayson had put away. Those who had served their time and were back on the streets could very well hold a grudge against the sheriff, as well as the judge, as many of the cases overlapped. Dan Grayson had brought the offender to justice and, if guilty, Judge Samuels-Piquard had come up with the appropriate sentence.
Alvarez felt they would find their killer among the criminals Grayson had put away. After serving time, some parolees might walk the straight and narrow, happy to stay as far away from the law as possible, while others jumped right back into their practiced life of crime. But there were also a few who had spent every day of their time behind bars contemplating their sorry lots in life and blaming those who had put them away: witnesses, family members who ratted them out, victims who got away, or law enforcement officers who had sent them up the river. Those cons, the ones who harbored grudges and plotted revenge, were a nasty, hard-assed group. They were the suspects she was trying to weed out of the crowded pack.