Ready to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  It had been two full days since Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s body had been found. Other than establishing that the bullet removed from her brain during the autopsy when compared to the bullet retrieved at Grayson’s cabin was a match, they weren’t much closer to finding the culprit.

  At least, though, they knew they were looking for one weapon and, most likely, one assassin, unless, of course, he was working with a partner, which was a consideration, if not likely.

  With the ticking of the clock, Pescoli was getting more and more agitated. She knew it, but couldn’t control the feeling that she was missing something and that time was slipping by, the case was getting colder.

  “Wrong with me?” Pescoli repeated, stalling as she reached for a plastic-coated menu held next to the napkin holder near the wall. She sent Alvarez a did-you-really-just-ask-me-that-moronic-question look. “You mean other than this case? Or the fact that my kids are giving me fits? And that my love life . . . oh, I don’t want to talk about it.” She snapped open the menu. There was something else nagging at her as well, the same black fear that caused the demons of the night to rob her of sleep.

  “Something’s going to break on the case,” Alvarez said as she eyed the menu. “I can feel it.”

  “Right now, all I can feel is hunger. I swear I could eat a horse. Make that two.”

  A bubbly waitress appeared at the table. Her smile was wide, her black skirt tight, her hair pulled away from her face to bob in shiny corkscrews around a thick pink headband. Her name tag read Terri and as she placed two water glasses on the table, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Automatically, Alvarez said, “Iced tea.”

  Pescoli skewered her with a look. “It’s freezing outside,” then said to the waitress, “I’ll have a Shorty’s Famous.”

  Terri didn’t bother writing the order down, just said, “That’ll be a few minutes and I’ll come back for your order.” Then, bouncing away, she disappeared through a swinging door with a porthole cut into it.

  “You gave me trouble for ordering an iced tea because it’s ‘freezing outside,’ then you order a milkshake?”

  “Not just any milkshake.” The Famous was a black-and-white milkshake made with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, chocolate syrup, and crushed Oreo cookies.

  “You’re right,” Alvarez responded sarcastically. “It’s more like a surefire diabetic seizure in the making. What happened to your usual Diet Coke?”

  “Don’t know,” she admitted, and that was the truth. “I just feel like a milkshake. No reason to make a federal case of it.”

  “Maybe not. It’s just not your usual thing. I’ve worked with you a lot of years and you’ve never once ordered a milkshake. It just adds to my theory that something’s up with you.” She folded her arms over the table and stared at her partner. “So, what is it?”

  Pescoli’s short fuse ignited. “Well, I guess you’re right. Everything isn’t just hunky-dory in my life right now. First off, I’ve got this case I can’t solve and, oh, someone killed a person I work with and tried to murder my boss. Then one of my kids decides he wants to be a cop and is invading my workspace. The other one is trying to mold herself into a real-life Barbie, I think, by starving herself and, yeah, I’m afraid she might have a serious eating disorder, but so far I’ve tiptoed around that issue,” she said, gaining steam as all of the problems that had been eating at her came rushing out. Having no intention of unloading, she suddenly couldn’t stop herself. “Then there’s the trip to Arizona both of my kids are taking with Lucky and Michelle, all part of the super-duper bonanza of a Christmas present that includes firearms and possible body waxing, I’m not really sure. The upshot is that Bianca thinks she’s way too fat to wear the bikini her stepmother bought her, so she’s basically starving herself. And Jeremy is all about the rifle his father bought him. He takes it with him in his truck. God help me, I only hope it’s not loaded. But who knows, I don’t even know my own son anymore. Well, that goes double for Bianca. What the hell was Lucky thinking?”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Damned straight, I am. Then there’s Santana. Did I mention that he’s thrown down the gauntlet and given me the door-die option after asking me to marry him?” Before Alvarez could say a word, the waitress suddenly appeared with the drinks. Pescoli eyed the tall, old-fashioned glass holding the very milkshake in question. Though she wouldn’t admit it out loud, she did wonder why she’d felt compelled to order a drink that could possibly top her usual daily calorie allowance.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Or two. Or three.

  Alvarez ordered some kind of bisque and salad, and Pescoli decided on a Reuben sandwich with a side of potato salad.

  “Got it,” Terri said, her smile flashing as she turned on her heel to head back to the kitchen.

  While Alvarez fiddled with squeezing lemon into her tea, Pescoli grabbed her milkshake, swirled the concoction with her plastic straw, then took a long drink. It was everything it was advertised to be and more.

  “You could have told me,” Alvarez said.

  “I just did.” Another long swallow. Heaven! “Look, we haven’t had a lot of time to sit around and chat. Time when we weren’t actually working.”

  “So how’re things with you?” she asked, trying, and failing, to hide her sarcasm.

  “Don’t get mad. I just asked.” Alvarez ignored her iced tea. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

  “Oh, for the love of . . .” She wanted to argue, to rail at the heavens for all that was wrong in her life, all the frustrations. She glanced at a booth near the window and spied a couple in their seventies. They were having coffee while holding hands across the table, as if they were in love as much today as they had been fifty years ago, or whenever it was that they first met. Never in her life had she experienced anything so obviously deep and committed. No, her loves had always been white-hot in the beginning, filled with passion that spilled from unleashed ardor in the bedroom to fiery anger when things weren’t going right. She suspected the fights and frustration had more to do with her than the men she chose.

  Stirring her shake, she looked up and found Alvarez staring at her, near-black eyes assessing. “I didn’t mean to unload,” she admitted, “but you did ask.”

  “I did.” Alvarez finally tasted her tea.

  “Okay. Sorry. I have been a little edgy lately. I didn’t mean to snap. So, seriously, how are things with you?”

  “I’m fine. O’Keefe and I are good . . . we just don’t get to see each other much. He and Gabe came over for dinner.”

  “Everything cool?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It’s a little strained with the parents. They’re not so sure him connecting with me is such a great idea, but we’re working on it.”

  Terri returned with their orders. Pescoli’s stomach rumbled at the sight of the thick sandwich, Swiss cheese melting over the corned beef and sauerkraut.

  “Anything else?” Terri asked, then when Alvarez said, “I think we’re fine,” she danced away to the next table where a family of three was being seated. From the looks of it, their teenaged son wasn’t all that excited to be having lunch with his folks. As Mom and Dad took off their jackets and tried to engage him, he sulked, keeping his own coat zipped, his watch cap pulled low over his forehead, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest. As Mom removed her hat, her blond hair falling around a face just starting to age, she smiled and chattered, trying to jolly the boy. Dad, more stern, cast him a don’t-embarrass-your-mother glare as he plucked a menu from its holder. The kid responded with grunted monosyllables guaranteed to send his parents orbiting into the stratosphere.

  Pescoli had been there.

  Way too often.

  She picked up half her Reuben and took a bite. The succulent blend of cheese, Thousand Island dressing, corned beef, and kraut exploded in her mouth.

  God, it tasted good.

  “So, are you going to marry Santana?” Alvarez asked. />
  “Don’t know,” she answered honestly as she dabbed dressing off the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I’m torn.”

  “Why?”

  “Not my first rodeo.” She took another bite and thought as she chewed. “And it’s not that easy. I’ve got kids.”

  “Almost grown.”

  “ ‘Almost’ being the operative word. And then there’s the job. Not exactly conducive to wedded bliss.”

  “He’s a big boy. Knows what he’s getting into.”

  Pescoli nodded, ate a little more and felt better, her blood sugar stabilizing, her temper no longer at flash point. “This didn’t come at a good time.”

  “There’s never a perfect time.”

  “Look who’s suddenly the marriage counselor.”

  “I know you’re not looking for advice, but from my perspective, it seems you’re overthinking it. Looking at the downside rather than the up.”

  “This? From you?” Alvarez had always been reined in, her emotions well under check, her private life just that: private. She wasn’t one to talk about feelings and emotions, and that suited Pescoli just fine. While Pescoli was apt to fly by the seat of her pants, Alvarez was always more cautious and thoughtful.

  “I’ll ignore that. And as for Jeremy, I wouldn’t worry too much about him. I know it’s weird, but under Joelle’s tutelage, Jeremy’s doing great. I’ve run into him a couple of times in the department and he seems to be able to handle the phones or some of the people who come in asking for information. He shows up on time, dresses according to department code, and does what he’s supposed to. What more do you want from him?”

  “I know.” Pescoli set her sandwich onto her plate again. “I was probably wrong about that. I’ve always said he needed a purpose, something to do with his life, I just never figured it would be as a cop.”

  “He’s not a cop yet.”

  “He needs to go to school.”

  “He will if he really wants to join the force. He’ll have to.” She blew across a spoonful of bisque. “So, go ahead and marry Santana.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She barreled on, “And you let Jeremy work at the department and find out what he really wants. Hurts nothing. As for Bianca,” she said, a little more serious, “if she’s really got an eating disorder, that’s a real problem. You have to do something. Fast.”

  “I know,” Pescoli said, taking another bite from her sandwich and wondering how a child of hers would deny herself food. “And I will.” She polished off the first half, then tackled her potato salad. “Thanks, Dear Abby.”

  “Anytime.” She stirred her soup. “Remember, I do have a master’s in psychology.”

  “Well, then, that does make you an expert, now, doesn’t it?”

  Alvarez attempted to swallow a small grin. “Pretty much.”

  “Fine. So, now that you’ve solved every damned one of my personal problems, let’s get back to business.”

  Alvarez nodded, her smile fading, her eyebrows drawing together, tiny lines appearing over her nose. “Because both victims work in law enforcement, we’ve been digging into past cases, thinking that’s the connection.” She glanced around the room, her gaze skating over the other customers. “But what if that’s what the killer wants us to think? What if there’s a connection we don’t know about?”

  “Between the judge and the sheriff?”

  “Yeah.” Alvarez was thinking hard.

  “What kind of relationship?”

  “That’s what we have to figure out.”

  “Lovers?”

  Alvarez hesitated. “It doesn’t feel right,” she said, shaking her head, but Pescoli could almost see the cogs turning in her partner’s mind. This wasn’t new territory for Alvarez to travel. “I still think Hattie Grayson’s the only woman he’d be interested in.”

  “Or you.”

  Her head snapped up. “I think we’d better be clear about this,” she said, “because I’m only saying it once, and I’m only saying it to you. Nothing ever happened between me and the sheriff. Not that I didn’t fantasize. But it wasn’t happening. He never would have let it, so it was just a passing thing, all on me. One-sided.”

  “Okay. Then why not the judge?”

  “There’s no evidence pointing that way. At least not yet. And if you’re thinking that Grayson’s name is going to magically appear out of the ashes from the fireplace in the judge’s den, I think you’re jumping off the deep end.”

  Pescoli dug into her milkshake with the long-handled spoon she’d been given, breaking up a clog of ice cream. “We need to look at them all.”

  “That we do,” her partner agreed, clearly disturbed. The topic of Grayson’s love life was hitting too close to home, it seemed.

  And that, to Pescoli’s way of thinking, was one more problem in a case that already had far too many.

  Hattie screwed up her courage as she drove to the Grayson ranch. The road was familiar, the memories vivid, as she guided her Toyota onto the long lane that wound its way to the ranch house. Surrounded by acres of snow-covered pastures and backdropped by rugged mountains, the house sat on a small rise, outbuildings scattered around the place the Grayson boys had called home for most of their lives.

  She caught a glimpse of the barn and her heart twisted when she imagined, for what had to be the millionth time, how Bart’s body had swung from the cross timber where Cade had found him. In her mind’s eye, she saw his ashen face, bulging eyes, dark bruises on his neck. Why? She wondered again but knew deep in her heart that if he did, in fact, hang himself, she was the reason he’d taken his own life. “He didn’t,” she said again, forcing conviction into her words, praying that she was not the cause.

  As her Camry churned its way to the crest of the hill, she recognized several vehicles, including Cade’s truck, parked just outside of the garage. For a split second she second-guessed herself, but she’d come too far to turn back now, and her reasons for arranging a play date for the twins so that she could track down Cade hadn’t changed. It was time they cleared the air, once and for all.

  For the past couple of days, ever since they’d run into him in town, McKenzie and Mallory had been focused on seeing him again. It wasn’t a surprise that they were feeling uncle deprived, she supposed, as Dan had played such a large role in their lives.

  Parking beside Cade’s Dodge, she took a deep breath, stuffed her keys into her pocket, and bracing herself against a gust of wintry wind, grabbed her purse and trudged through the snow to the front door. Her handbag felt as if it weighed a ton, the fat envelope inside heavy with the truth.

  Cade’s dog, Shad, a three-legged speckled hound, sent up a ruckus as she approached, only to melt into a puddle of wagging tail and excited whines as she spoke to him.

  “Hey, Shad,” she chastised softly. “What’s with all the barking? You know me.” She took the time to scratch the old dog behind his floppy ears and was still petting him when the front door opened and Zed, standing in his stockinged feet, new-looking jeans, and a sweatshirt from Montana State, filled the doorway.

  “Hattie,” he said, and seemed more than a little irritated to find her outside his door.

  “Hi, Zed.”

  “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  “Yes, but first, is there any news about Dan?” she asked, wondering if the doctors had given more information to the sheriff’s brothers than had been released to the general public.

  “Still the same.”

  “I’m sorry.” She hadn’t expected to hear differently, but she’d hoped Dan had taken a turn for the better. “I guess it just takes time.”

  “That’s what they say.” He eyed her up and down. “But you didn’t come all the way out here to ask me about Dan’s condition.”

  “No, uh, I’m looking for Cade.”

  “Are ya, now?” As ever, he didn’t bother to hide his disapproval, had never warmed to her.

  “Is he here?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she a
dded, “His truck is here,” and hitched a thumb toward the battered pickup.

  “He’s working.”

  “Here?” she asked.

  Beneath his unshaven jaw, a muscle worked in aggravation. “In the machine shed.”

  She started to turn away, then thought better of it. She’d driven out here to clear the air, so why not start with Zed? He, too, was the girls’ uncle, and she was sick of the silent treatment. As another gust of raw wind chased along the fence line, fluttering a few dry leaves along the crusted snow, she faced him once again.

  “Did I do something, Zed?” she asked and saw a flicker of something dark in his eyes. When he didn’t answer, she pushed it, taking one step nearer to the doorway. “You’re always short with me, kind of condescending.”

  “Am I?”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  “Sure. That’s what I am. Obtuse.”

  Sensing the tension between them, the dog let out a whimper and looked from Hattie to Zed, his tail nervously sweeping the old floorboards.

  “It’s not one thing you did, Hattie,” Zed finally said, looking down his broken nose at her. “It’s everything you did. Everything you still do.”

  “Such as?”

  “You really want to do this?” he asked. When she didn’t respond, just held her ground, he said, “Okay. Let’s start with you she-cattin’ around here. Searchin’ out Cade. Hanging out at the hospital checkin’ on Dan. Just bein’ available.” The disgust in his voice was palpable. “You know, woman, it’s like you have no pride when it comes to my brothers. And you just don’t give up, do you? Driving Bart to his grave was bad enough, but you just can’t leave it alone.” He took a step forward, towering over her, imposing and seething.

  “I didn’t drive Bart to do anything! You know I believe with all my heart that someone killed him. And whether you like it or not, I’m still a part of this family.”

  “You might wear the Grayson name, but you and Bart were divorced, and that was your making, your insistence. You didn’t want to be married to him. Your girls are a different matter. They’re blood, always will be. But you? You’re just their damned guardian. Until they’re eighteen. Then it’s over.” His face flushed beneath his beard. “You aren’t even Bart’s legal widow, y’know. Oh, you’ve been making a big stink, boohooing about him to Dan and the sheriff’s department, insisting that he didn’t kill himself, that someone staged his suicide, but that’s just plain BS, all to ease your guilty conscience, and we both know it!”