by Lisa Jackson
“The garbage was probably picked up right before Christmas. If she threw it out . . .”
“Wait a sec.” Pescoli walked into the den again and knelt near the hearth where black, flaky ashes were visible in the firebox.
“What?” Alvarez asked, following.
“See those dark ashes in the grate?” Pescoli said, pointing toward the charred interior. “Would the judge leave ashes in the grate? Considering how neat she was, how spotless the rest of the house is kept, almost as if it was thoroughly cleaned before she left.”
“Nope.” Alvarez came over to her.
“I’ll bet that she rarely builds a fire here in her husband’s shrine. No way would she leave this fireplace with ashes in it.” Pescoli slid the screen open. “And those are not ashes from firewood, those big black flakes are paper.”
“The calendar?”
“Possibly. Or her will. Or maybe just a piece of paper with ID and account numbers she didn’t want to recycle, but still . . . there’s a shredder in her office.”
“Maybe the lab can find something.”
Pescoli rocked back on her heels. “Whoever made this fire might have been in a hurry; didn’t want to bother with taking the hood off the grate in the living room but wanted to make sure whatever it was got destroyed.” Her eyes narrowed as she thought, imagining the scene.
“So what was it?”
“If it was the calendar, then what did the killer want permanently erased?”
“A particular date with someone?”
“A lover?” Pescoli posed. “And his name was on the calendar? But if she wanted to hide it, that’s not too smart and the judge was pretty damned sharp.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to hide it, but he did.”
“Someone who didn’t want their relationship known because . . . he was married maybe? Or involved with someone else too?”
Alvarez shrugged. “Or maybe it was someone who didn’t want any association with the judge for political reasons.”
Pescoli eyed the medals on the wall, the military award, and collection of weapons on display. “Or maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree entirely and someone just burned some trash.”
“We’ll have the lab check the ashes. Let’s talk to the person who cleans the house, find out if the fireplace was ever used.” Alvarez looked closely around the room. “I’m just guessing here, but I don’t think the judge mopped her own floors or polished her own silver.”
“Right. Maybe the maid knows something.” They started walking toward the front door when Alvarez’s phone rang. “Unknown number,” she said, then answered, “Detective Selena Alvarez.” There was a pause as the person on the other end of the line said something.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglas, but I can’t discuss the case. There’s going to be a press conference this evening at the sheriff’s department, so you can . . . Yes, I understand, but I’m sure your editor will give you a little more time with the deadline . . . Nothing to say except ‘the investigation is ongoing. ’ ” She hung up.
“Our buddy Manny is at it again,” Pescoli observed.
“You got it.”
“Some reporters are okay, but not Douglas.” She glanced through the oval window in one of the doors. “It’s go time. The techs are here.” Snow had begun drifting down lazily and night had fallen; all the street lamps were now giving off their watery illumination. Though Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s home didn’t appear to be a crime scene, there was a chance the killer was someone the judge knew, someone who’d been in the house and left some evidence behind.
“And they’ve got company,” Alvarez said.
A television news van with the letters KBTR emblazoned across its side had turned down the street and was slowing in front of the house. A thin layer of dirt from the slush on the road had dimmed the letters, but the words were still legible, the driver slowing as he located a parking spot.
As the lumbering vehicle stopped on the opposite side of the street, a reporter in a red jacket and black slacks and boots hopped onto the street. She couldn’t have been an inch over five feet or a day over twenty-five.
“Honey Carlisle,” Alvarez said, while Pescoli opened the door to admit the techs.
“You know her?” Pescoli couldn’t place the face.
“Works out at my gym. Transferred here from a station in Salt Lake City. Was Miss Utah or something.”
“You know this because it was out on the club bulletin?”
“My trainer, Jed. He’s definitely got a thing for her.”
“Which came first, her hair color or her name?”
“Shh.” Alvarez hid a smile.
“Selena!” Honey yelled, waving a gloved hand enthusiastically, just as if she’d run into a long-lost friend.
“You’re on a first-name basis?” Pescoli asked, her brows lifting.
“We’re in a couple of the same kickboxing and step classes, and then sometimes after, meet up at the juice bar.”
“Seriously? The juice bar?” Pescoli said as Honey began marching across the snow-covered lawn.
Alvarez ignored Pescoli’s comments. “Stop!” she said sharply in the reporter’s direction and held out both her hands. “Let’s keep it in the street.”
“Oh, okay.” The reporter backtracked while Alvarez stepped off the porch to greet her.
“Is this a crime scene?” Honey’s big, round eyes grew wider. “I thought the judge was killed in the mountains. Oh, my God, was there another murder?”
“No. We’re just being careful. And respectful,” Alvarez reminded.
“Okay. Sure. Um, I just need an interview for the ten o’-clock news!” She flashed a radiant, Miss Utah-worthy smile Pescoli’s way.
“You’ll have to wait until after the press conference at the station,” Alvarez told her repressively.
“Really?” She was suddenly deflated.
“That’s what the undersheriff ordered.”
“That would be Cort Brewster, right?”
“He’s in charge temporarily,” Pescoli put in as she stepped off the porch herself.
“Can you give me an update on Sheriff Grayson?” Honey asked Pescoli in her cheery voice.
“Again, you can ask all your questions of the public information officer this evening,” Alvarez put in firmly before Pescoli could respond.
Honey wasn’t about to be denied. “You aren’t going to tell me anything? Like, how the judge was killed?”
Alvarez shook her head.
“Were the two attacks, one on the sheriff and then the judge, linked?”
Alvarez didn’t budge. “You can ask the public information officer.”
Honey glanced at Pescoli, who stared back. She must’ve seen the don’t-even-think-about-it censure in her eyes because she finally gave up and said, “Okay, Ralph,” to a hefty guy hauling a camera on his shoulders. “Let’s take some exteriors. House and grounds. I’ll give a short report and we’ll edit it in with footage from the conference.”
She was clearly disappointed but went about her business, standing in front of the house, talking into a microphone with snow falling all around her.
Pescoli and Alvarez talked to some of the members of the crime scene unit and then, once the news van was gone and the techs were packing it in, they headed out toward their vehicle. Just as they reached the street, a woman, dressed in a long black coat, hurried out of the house two doors down. Tall and wasp-thin, she was holding a broad-brimmed hat to her head as she walked swiftly through the swirling snow toward them.
“I’m Claudia Dubois, I live two doors down, right over there.” She pointed a long finger at the Georgian house from which she’d just appeared. Built of brick, with evenly spaced windows and pillars supporting a small front porch, it was more elaborately lit than the judge’s.
Pescoli and Alvarez had barely introduced themselves when she broke in, “I can’t tell you how devastated Barry and I are! That’s Doctor Baron Dubois. We adored Kathryn, and spent so much time wi
th her and her family while the kids were growing up. While George was alive, we would play cards or go to movies. Oh, my. Then things changed, of course. Kathryn moved on. Dabbled at dating.”
“Was she seeing anyone?”
“Now? Oh, Lord, I don’t know. She was always tightlipped about that sort of thing.” She was on a roll and wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Winston, well, he always was an odd child, very withdrawn, and now he’s married to that awful woman. Kathryn didn’t like Cecilia much, let me tell you, but I guess it doesn’t matter now.” She blinked rapidly, her lashes thick with mascara, her gray eyes shadowed. “It’s just such a shame!” Her hat threatened to blow off again and she clamped it down with a bony hand.
“What about her maid? She had one?” Alvarez asked.
“Donna? Oh, yes. Lovely girl.”
Pescoli asked, “Does Donna live around here?” Claudia, still holding tight to her hat, shrugged as if it didn’t matter. Her lips pursed and she declared, “I hope you catch that pervert!”
“What pervert?” Alvarez asked.
“The one who’s been stalking her. Or, us. I’m telling you it’s unnerving.”
“Who is he?” Alvarez demanded.
“Well, I don’t know his name or I would tell you,” she said, a little ticked. “We’ve seen him, in the park. He seems to be casing the houses. Ours. Kathryn’s. The Millers.” She indicated a tall house with a turret that stood between her house and the judge’s. It was dark aside from the Christmas lights. “The Millers, they’re still out of town. Skiing in Utah. Been gone since before Christmas.” Her hand went to her mouth. “I bet Velma doesn’t even know about Kathryn unless she saw it on the news . . . oh, my.” She was clearly worried sick. “But the man who was watching our houses . . . he obviously keyed in on Kathryn’s place.”
“This man. The stalker. You think he’s dangerous, that he could be the one who killed her?” Pescoli asked, making a note to check with the Millers as well as the other people on the block.
“I’m saying it’s a strong possibility.” She craned her head to look over her shoulder and across the street to the park.
Pescoli asked, “Did he ever talk to the judge, accost her?”
“No . . . not that she said to me.” Claudia faced them once more.
“Did he ever approach anyone that you know of?” Alvarez asked.
“No, no . . .” She bit the corner of her lip. “It was just . . . well, he acted so strange.”
Alvarez suggested, “You mean, maybe he’s mentally unbalanced?”
“Well, obviously!”
“Did you ever see him with anyone?” Pescoli asked.
“He was always alone. Under the tree. Always under that tall fir. Always staring.” She shivered visibly. “I told Kathryn he was dangerous, but she didn’t pay him any mind.”
Pescoli looked across the street to the park with its dozens of trees and street lamps to the very tree the woman was indicating. Her heart stilled and the dream she’d had the night before reawakened. She imagined the assailant, dressed in white, standing beneath the branches and even now, there was a little girl walking near the tree, her mother pushing a stroller nearby.
So much like the images she’d seen in her mind that a cold finger seemed to slide down her spine.
“Pescoli?” Alvarez asked and she snapped to.
To Claudia, she asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
The thin woman thought hard. “Oh, when was it? Last week, I think, before Christmas, maybe around the twenty-first or twenty-second . . . sometimes my memory isn’t . . . oh, that’s right!” She snapped her gloved fingers. “It was the twentieth. I remember because he was standing there as I was backing up, taking some of my pumpkin bars to the church for the evening Bible study classes. But that person, whoever he is, was there again. Beneath the tree as always. It’s right on the jogging trail and I believe he chose that spot because it would be easy to grab anyone who passed by!”
“But you said he was focused on the judge.”
“Her house. The Millers’ and ours, yes! But there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s dangerous, I know it and now . . . oh, dear, poor Kathryn.”
“What time of day did you see him?” Pescoli asked.
“Always in the evening or late at night,” Claudia said hurriedly. “I’ve never once seen him in the mornings or early afternoons. No, no, always in the dark.” She was nodding, agreeing with herself, her hand still keeping her hat in place. “And I went to drop off the cookies after five, I think, and this time of year the night comes so early.”
Alvarez cast Pescoli a look, then asked, “Can you describe him?”
“Tall, fit—maybe, hard to tell. Always wearing ski gear, heavy down jacket, y’know, bulky. Camouflage white for winter, like hunters wear.”
White. Like the dream.
“The hood has a bill, so his eyes are always shaded. I’m telling you it’s downright spooky, takes all the fun out of Christmas.” Once more, Claudia hazarded a quick glance to the park where a solitary jogger made his way along a snowy path.
“Did you ever see him in or near a vehicle?” Alvarez asked.
“Oh, no.” She stared at them as if they’d asked if the man she’d seen was from Jupiter.
“Does he carry a weapon?” Pescoli asked, thinking of her dream and the assault weapon she’d envisioned on her assailant’s back.
“Of course he does!”
Pescoli focused on her. “What kind of weapon?”
“Well, how would I know? I haven’t actually seen a gun or a knife, but he’s always facing the street, observing our houses.” She laughed a little. “How could I possibly know what he’s got in his pockets?”
“So, you’re just assuming,” Alvarez clarified.
“It’s not that big of a leap. This is Montana, you know.”
Weirder and weirder, Pescoli thought. And yet . . . “Would you mind working with a police artist?” she asked, even though she was starting to question the woman’s credibility. Something about all the information she was spewing seemed off, though it was so like last night’s nightmare that it was spooky and Pescoli couldn’t just write it off.
Coincidence.
Nothing more.
“I’d love to!” Claudia cried. She visibly brightened at the thought of actually helping, or perhaps it was just because someone in authority was taking her seriously. “You want me to come down to the police station?”
“The sheriff’s office,” Pescoli clarified.
“Perfect!” She was suddenly thrilled, as if she’d just accomplished an impossible feat. Her grief and dismay at her friend’s death were, apparently, forgotten, at least for the moment. “I’ll bring Barry too. He’s just so smart. A doctor, you know. He might be able to add something!”
“Your husband saw the stalker?” Pescoli asked.
“Oh, no. Never.” Her lips pursed almost in distaste. “It’s the oddest thing. Whenever I noticed the stalker in the park, I’d call the doctor over, but wouldn’t you know, every time Barry got to the window, he’d be gone.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It was as if that stalker knew I was watching and decided to vanish. Poof!” She threw her hands into the air and her hat, caught on a breeze, went sailing. “Drat!” With surprising speed, she took off after the hat and managed to catch it against a pile of slush near the curb.
“Something’s not right,” Alvarez said as they followed her. “This is all too bizarre and convenient.”
“You got that right.” Pescoli decided not to mention the dream. At least not yet. Alvarez was even more of a realist than she was. “Let’s see what Doctor Dubois has to say.”
“If he’s home,” Alvarez said.
“And if he really exists.”
Walking rapidly, Pescoli and Alvarez caught up with Claudia and walked her back to her house, where her husband, wearing sweatpants and a Texas A&M sweatshirt, was just opening the door.
Score one for the truth.
“I saw these police officers over at Kathryn’s and thought I should explain about the man who’s been stalking us.”
“Honey,” he said softly, his bushy gray eyebrows drawing downward over the tops of horn-rimmed glasses. “You know there’s no one there. We’ve been over this.” Then he turned his attention to the detectives. “I’m sorry,” he said, and there was a guarded sadness in his eyes. “I’m afraid Claudia has . . . an active imagination, and all this sorry business about Kathryn has made things worse.”
“But I saw him, Barry! You know I did. I told you!”
“May we come in?” Pescoli asked. The man stepped aside so that they could enter a wide foyer lit by an ornate chandelier.
As he closed the door behind them, he said to his wife, “It’s freezing out there, dear. I’m sure the detectives could use something to warm them up. Maybe we could rustle up some tea or coffee for the officers?”
“My goodness!” she exclaimed, tossing her hat over the hook of a coatrack positioned near the door. “Where the devil are my manners?” She unbuttoned her coat and with it billowing behind her said, “Coming right up!” as she bustled off toward what presumably was the kitchen.
Once she was out of earshot, her husband said, “I don’t know what my wife told you, but ninety percent of it is fabrication.” His forehead wrinkled. “I’m afraid she hallucinates and sometimes can’t distinguish what is real from what is not.”
“There is no stalker in the park?”
“Oh, there could be, I suppose, but as for an athletic-looking man in some kind of white camouflage gear?” His eyebrows lifted over his glasses. “I’ve yet to see him.”
Alvarez and Pescoli exchanged glances.
Back to square one.
Chapter 18