Ready to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  If not Samuels’s place, then where?

  He could have broken into any one of hundreds of cabins, summer homes in the area, but that didn’t feel right to her. And why was Carnie with him? If he were on a killing spree, would she willingly go along?

  The woman had no arrest record, no infractions with the law. So now she’s a partner to murder? Or had she been kidnapped? Duped?

  Her family had once lived around Grizzly Falls but now was scattered, parents split, mother dead, father remarried and living the Aloha lifestyle in Hawaii. She had a handful of cousins in Washington and Oregon and an uncle in Duluth, Minnesota. No siblings.

  So far, none of the calls made to her family by deputies had brought out any information of consequence. More telling, and sad, no one seemed to care much about Carnival’s disappearance.

  One cousin, Rachelle, had said, “It’s kinda too bad about Carnie. She’s just not all that bright.”

  Her father’s response was, “I don’t know what she’s mixed up in, if anything, but I don’t worry too much about her. She’s like her mother, you know, always lands on her feet.”

  Only her uncle, Davis Briscoe, had anything of importance to say. “Poor thing never had a chance. Her mother—that was my sister, Lizzie—drank herself to death, and Harvey, well, he just wasn’t any good at bein’ a dad. He does a whole lot better over on Maui or wherever he is. I tried with Carnie, when I lived there, but, hey, I had to take the job here.”

  As an afterthought, Pescoli searched titles of property in and around Grizzly Falls for Carnival Tibalt and found nothing. Again. The same went for Harvey and Lizzie, even though she was dead, just on the off chance there had been a slipup, but the search was a bust.

  “One last resort,” she said, sipping coffee gone cold as she checked out good old Uncle Davis Briscoe and sure enough, he still owned property in Montana, in Pinewood County, in the very hills and off that same road out of town as Vincent Samuels.

  “Well, hello,” she said softly, her spirits lifting as she once again rechecked the maps.

  As she did, she felt that same rush that told her she was on to something. Yesterday it had failed her, however, so she told herself to tread carefully. This time she wouldn’t risk more fallout. She would check the place out in broad daylight by herself. From a distance.

  Take precautions. If you’re right, you’ll need backup.

  She stopped by Alvarez’s office and stuck her head inside, but her partner’s neat desk was empty, her chair pushed into the desk, a screen saver rolling over her computer monitor.

  Brewster, too, wasn’t in, so she called Alvarez and left a voice mail, then bundled up and headed to her Jeep. Alvarez’s Subaru wasn’t in the lot, which was odd, and Jeremy’s truck was MIA, though it could be that he wasn’t scheduled to work today; his hours were part-time and flexible. As for Brewster, she really didn’t care where he was after the dressing down she’d been subjected to yesterday.

  As she climbed into her Jeep, she thought about how nearly a week earlier she’d planned on talking to Grayson about resigning. Now, it sounded like a good idea again, and this time she could shove her resignation under Cort Brewster’s pointed better-than-thou nose. She’d marry Santana, take care of her kids until they left the nest, even consider going private, become a partner with O’Keefe, as he was thinking of moving to Grizzly Falls. Starting the engine, she felt a little better. As a private detective she wouldn’t have all the rules and regulations and chain of command to worry about.

  No more morons like Hanson and Connors. That thought gave her great satisfaction as she tore out of the lot. Gunning the engine to make a light at the intersection, she told herself she had to be patient.

  First she had to close this damned case and nail Grayson’s assailant.

  After that, she could hand in her resignation and tell Cort Brewster exactly where to shove it.

  Chapter 32

  “Wanda Verdago is ready to talk,” Alvarez announced.

  It was late morning by the time she’d returned to the station and had cornered Brewster in his office. Grayson’s boxes had been cleared out and now, with all of Brewster’s paraphernalia on the shelves and in the bookcases, the room didn’t feel like it had ever belonged to Dan Grayson.

  Brewster had been reaching for the phone but let it drop. “She knows where her husband is?”

  “Not that she’s admitting to yet. I talked to her at her apartment, but she wouldn’t say much. Not without seeking legal advice.”

  “Of course.”

  “But she agreed to come to the station and give a statement about the disappearance of Joey Lundeen, fifteen years ago.”

  “For the love of Mike,” Brewster said, his eyes narrowing a bit. “I always wondered what happened to that two-bit punk.”

  Alvarez nodded.

  “You think it’s a homicide?”

  “She’s not saying until she and her lawyer arrive. They should be here around three. She wants a deal. Immunity.”

  “Must be serious.”

  “I’d say so. She seems about ready to roll on her husband, so if she knows anything about the recent attacks, this would be the time to find out.”

  “I’ll talk to the D.A. I’m sure we can work something out.” He was sitting up again, reaching for his phone, but she said, “Before you do that, tell me this. You said your brother knew Verdago, and you, too, sort of.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Does he strike you as the kind who would go completely off the rails and plan the kind of attacks that we’re dealing with? Well organized. Planned.”

  “What’re you getting at, Alvarez?”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t add up to me. Why grab your girlfriend, go on a killing spree, then go to ground? Doesn’t follow his pattern.”

  “Could be one of a dozen reasons. Something ticked him. He was bored with the life of an ex-con and janitor. He has something to prove. Who knows what makes a guy like Verdago tick?”

  “Maybe,” she said, unconvinced. Alvarez didn’t like loose ends and this case, with Verdago at its center, was filled with them.

  “So, did Pescoli go with you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her around, but I heard she was in this morning.”

  “I haven’t talked to her.” That much wasn’t a lie, but she didn’t mention the voice mail and text she’d received.

  “Well, when you do, keep an eye on her, would you? She’s out of control and she dragged you into the muck yesterday.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he cut her off, “Don’t bother defending her. It’s not gonna fly. She’s a loose cannon, Alvarez, and if she gets involved in another stunt like that . . .” He must’ve read something in her face, because he set the phone down and held her gaze. “Oh, fuck. Don’t tell me,” he said, then abruptly changed his mind. “What the hell’s going down now?”

  The cabin appeared deserted.

  Pescoli, from a position looking down on the graying building, had seen no movement in the windows, though thick curtains covered the glass. No smoke curled from the chimney, however, and though there were tracks in the snow leading to the house and indicating that a vehicle had been coming and going over the past several days, the lean-to that served as a garage was currently empty aside from a stack of cord wood and an old refrigerator that had to have been new around 1960.

  She studied the place through binoculars. Surrounded by forest, the only access was by vehicle; the single-car lane that wound through the trees was only visible due to the double tracks cutting through seven inches of snow. Whoever had been driving that rig had been gone for a while, it seemed, because the tracks weren’t new, a thin layer of snow had accumulated over them.

  She’d parked her Jeep in an abandoned sawmill nearly a mile down the county road that serviced this area, then had hiked through the woods alongside that road to find this position, where she’d hidden in the brush, staring down at the cabin. She’d sent a text with her whereabouts to Alvarez, but so far
hadn’t received any reply. Now her phone was on silent.

  She glanced at her watch again. She’d been observing the shack for more than an hour watching the snow fall, but nothing had changed except she’d gotten a whole lot colder and another half an inch of snow had fallen.

  Deciding it was now or never, she went for it. Carefully, telling herself she was not a rogue detective, her eyes and ears straining, she picked her way from one thicket to the next, zeroing in on the house, spying nothing to indicate that anyone was around. Each window was covered with a thick, unlined material that looked like black burlap and didn’t allow for any viewing inside. And each one was locked tight. God Almighty, she hoped her efforts weren’t a bust.

  At the back of the house there was a rotting wooden stoop protected slightly by an overhang where a rear door with a tiny window cut into it barred her entrance. She tried the knob, as she had in the front, but the door was locked tight. On her tiptoes she looked through the small slice of glass and could see most of the kitchen, but nothing more.

  She had to get inside.

  She looked under a fraying mat and under a forgotten boot brush, but there was no key. Nor was there a key tucked onto the supports of the overhang or on the stoop itself. She made her way to the front door and had no more luck, then looked around.

  This was a vacation home.

  Unused and nearly abandoned.

  Wouldn’t there be a key left nearby?

  Carnie and Verdago could have it with them.

  She thought of breaking in because she knew in her heart that, after his tirade yesterday, Brewster would block any action on her part that wasn’t strictly by the book.

  About to give up, she walked into the outbuilding that was the garage. Sweeping the beam of her flashlight along the rafters and posts, she found nothing. She even opened the dark refrigerator, which was empty and filthy when she searched inside. Opening the tiny freezer compartment, she found nothing but an ancient, metal ice cube tray, but as she closed the refrigerator door, her flashlight beam caught on a bit of metal in the wall behind the old Frigidaire.

  A key.

  “Amen,” she whispered and only hoped it worked the lock on one of the doors.

  The closest was the front door.

  No go, she thought, rounding the old building and slipping the key into the back door lock. It turned easily. Her pulse beat hard. This wasn’t even close to legal unless she saw something through the window that might be evidence of a crime. Still, she wasn’t going to stop and she pushed open the door slowly, tentatively stepping inside where the air was warm, but the smells were off. The lingering smoke was hiding something else, something more sinister.

  Using her flashlight, she saw the part of the kitchen table that had been obscured from her view at the window. There were pictures on its grainy top. Head shots of people she recognized, including herself.

  Her skin crawled at the thought that she was actually in the whack-job’s lair. This was where he’d plotted out the murders of Grayson and the judge, the sicko’s base of operations.

  Set in the forest with the curtains drawn, the rooms were dark and close, the embers of a fire glowing a weak red from the living area. She took one step toward the front of the house, the beam of her flashlight skating across the dirty linoleum floor to land directly on the unmoving, gray face of a very dead Carnie Tibalt.

  Pescoli stifled a scream, but her heart was pounding double time.

  The woman, eyes fixed as if she were staring at the ceiling, was nude aside from a pair of boots. A nasty dark hole was visible in her forehead. She took off her glove, reached down, touched her beneath her chin, but found no pulse.

  Maurice had killed Carnie?

  Leaving the dead body where she’d found it, Pescoli pulled the heavy curtains back just a bit so that it would be believable that she’d seen Carnie before she’d entered. Then, replacing her glove and touching nothing else, Pescoli checked out the other rooms, a freezing bedroom where clothes littered the floor and a bathroom so small she could barely turn around.

  Don’t mess this up, she told herself as she backed out of the rooms and out the door. She hadn’t touched anything other than Carnie’s neck, the curtain, and the doorknob, so technically she hadn’t compromised the case.

  Still, she slid outside and made the call to Alvarez who, thankfully, picked up on the second ring. “It’s Pescoli,” she said, suddenly cold to the bone. “I found Verdago’s hideout. A place owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle.” She rattled off the address at the same time she thought she heard the rumble of an engine.

  “We’re already on our way,” Alvarez said, without explanation.

  “Here? You’re coming here?”

  “Yes!”

  The engine was sounding nearer, a deep growl. Certainly not Alvarez’s Subaru. Then . . . ? “How close are you?” Pescoli asked, her eyes searching the wilderness for a place to hide. Snow was falling hard, but her footprints were still visible. Damn! Quickly, she backed into the surrounding trees.

  “We’re three, four miles out. We’ll be there in five.”

  “Make it in two,” Pescoli snapped out. “Looks like I’ve got company!” She clicked off just as the white van belonging to Carnie Tibalt rounded a final bend.

  Sliding her sidearm from her shoulder holster, she ducked behind a copse of hemlock, enough protection that she could peer through a crack in the branches.

  Make the collar. Her inner voice was insistent, telling her she had the drop on him, and her finger tightened over the trigger of her sidearm. But she wanted him alive, to suffer the trial, to spend the rest of his miserable years in prison, to pay for what he’d done to Dan Grayson, Kathryn Samuels-Piquard, and now, Carnie Tibalt.

  The engine died and she moved for a better view, a clear shot if she needed it. He’d pulled into the garage. Seconds ticked by and she didn’t move, barely breathed, all of her senses trained on that small open area between the garage and the front porch of the cabin.

  Come on, bastard, show yourself.

  Her jaw was rock hard, her muscles tight and coiled. She could hear the beating of her heart in her eardrums.

  Through the snowfall she saw movement as he appeared, dressed in white camouflage, a rifle in one hand, a shifting image in the wintry flakes.

  You bastard!

  He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes spying her trail of footprints rimming the house.

  Without hesitation he shouldered his weapon and started searching in the shadows.

  Training her weapon on him, she yelled. “Police! Drop your weapon, Verdago! Put your hands over your head! Now!”

  His head jerked toward the sound of her voice and he fired.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  The trees around her shook.

  Ice splintered.

  Snow fell in thick, powdery clouds.

  Pieces of bark shot from the trunk of the tree she was using for cover. Jesus! She ducked back into the thicket, breathing hard, her heart thundering in her chest. She lost him in the heavy curtain of snow.

  He’s right here. Has to be.

  Frantically, she searched the clearing, then the woods. She tried to focus on his footprints, but the snow was too thick.

  He knows where you are, but you can’t see him. You’re a sitting duck, Pescoli. Move!

  “She’s in trouble!” Alvarez said.

  “She’s always in trouble.” Behind the wheel of his SUV, Brewster hit the gas. The wipers slapped snow off the windshield, the car radio buzzed, and Alvarez was checking the computer as Brewster drove tensely along this winding road that cut through the mountains. “Call for backup.”

  “They’re on their way.”

  “Good. Oh, hell!”

  The Jeep slid around a corner that he took a little too fast. They fishtailed on the packed snow, the rear of the SUV sliding dangerously near a deep chasm that fell a hundred feet to a stream far below. On the other side of the narrow road, mountains soared, their peaks invisib
le in the ever-falling snow.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered between teeth that were clamped tight, but he straightened the wheel and the tires grabbed the road again, propelling the Jeep forward as they wound ever closer to the cabin where Maurice Verdago was hiding out. “She’s just lucky you figured out where she was.”

  “It wasn’t that hard.” Alvarez had pieced together where her partner had gone by the messages she’d left, and now Pescoli had given her the address.

  “I warned you about her,” he said now. “She’s gone rogue. What the hell’s wrong with that woman?” He slowed for a second, turning into the long lane leading to the cabin owned by Carnie Tibalt’s uncle. “She’s a liability to the department and if she hasn’t already, she’s going to get herself killed.” He slid a glance at Alvarez. “She could take you out with her, you know.”

  She ignored that. “Okay, we’re getting close. Should be just over the next rise.” There wasn’t any time to discuss the pitfalls or pratfalls of Pescoli’s professionalism.

  Craaack! The blast from a rifle split the silence.

  Alvarez sucked in a sharp breath. In her mind’s eye she saw her partner, body jerking as an assassin’s bullet hit her. “Come on!” Yanking her Glock from its holster, she put her other hand on the door handle just as Brewster careened over the final hillock and hit the brakes.

  The SUV slid into a clearing and stopped not forty feet from the tiny cabin’s front door. A sniper dressed in snowy camouflage, rifle on his shoulder, took one look their way, then tore away, jogging around the corner of the shack.

  “Let’s get him!” She was throwing open the door when Brewster placed a hand on her arm.