by Lisa Jackson
“Mom—”
“Just a sec, Jer.” She slid behind the wheel, replaced the lid of her cup, and staring out the foggy windshield at the customers walking into and out of the convenience store, said, “Okay, now what’s going on?”
“It’s, uh, something I can’t talk to you about over the phone.”
“You called me.”
“I know. I thought we could meet today sometime.”
“You coming into the office? You’re scheduled at two, right? That’s just a couple of hours from now.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not coming in.”
“Does the sheriff know?”
“I left a message with Joelle.”
“So, why aren’t you volunteering? I thought this was what you wanted. Last I hear that’s the reason you’re taking classes at the community college. You want to be a cop.”
He paused and she visualized him chewing on the inside of his cheek, a habit that still came out during times of stress. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
“Jer?” she said, her latent mom-radar suddenly alert. “Are you okay?”
“I just need to talk to you.”
“Okay, sure. When and where?”
“How about at Heidi’s house?”
“You want me to meet you at Cort Brewster’s home?” She couldn’t quite keep the note of horror from her voice.
“Yeah, at four. And don’t tell anyone.”
“Not even the sheriff?”
“Oh, God, no! Especially not . . . just don’t say anything. See you then.”
“Jeremy, I don’t really want to go—”
He clicked off before she could finish.
She didn’t move, just stared blindly through the windshield, her thoughts centered around her son. Why in the world would he want her to meet him at Heidi’s house? Was Heidi going to be there? Four in the afternoon? After she was out of school for the day?
Frantically she called him back and texted, but he wouldn’t respond. Nope. He was holding out.
It wasn’t like Jeremy to be overly dramatic; that was usually Bianca’s department . . . or Heidi’s.
A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach as she considered what could require all this secrecy, and the only reason she could come up with was the horrifying conclusion that Heidi Brewster was pregnant.
Chapter 34
Alvarez had been avoiding Pescoli.
Because her partner always had a thing against Brewster and because she wasn’t certain exactly how things would play out, she’d kept her suspicions to herself. As she drove through the hills to Chilcoate’s place, she didn’t miss the irony of it all, that she agreed with Brewster on this one, that Pescoli might go all rogue if she had just the inkling that Alvarez suspected the undersheriff of being involved in the attack on Grayson and the judge.
But why would he do that?
Back to the age-old question: motive. Yes, Brewster was ambitious and, yes, he’d been passed over, probably reaching the acme of his career as undersheriff.
She nearly drove off the road as that thought crossed her mind. Undersheriff? Wait . . . what was it Cee-Cee had said about her mother-in-law, Judge Samuels-Piquard? A telephone conversation that Cee-Cee had overheard?
Not on top. I like to be under the sheriff.
Could Cee-Cee have misinterpreted? Could the judge have been talking about Cort Brewster, who was considered a friend of the judge? It wouldn’t have been the first time a “friend” had taken to consoling a widow one step too far.
Chilcoate’s cabin was as rustic as any she’d seen lately, but larger. Tucked into the mountains, surrounded by forests, his home was built out of rough-hewn logs but was supplied with electricity and running water. She suspected he might have a hidden room somewhere, either in an attic, behind a hidden wall, or in a basement, wherever he did his serious computer hacking.
As far as she knew, he’d never violated any specific laws, but then she didn’t know much about him, and preferred to keep it that way.
He was smoking a cigarette on the porch, waiting for her, and she figured she’d tripped some kind of silent alarm on her approach.
“Detective,” he said, his eyes full of secrets behind a pair of thick glasses. His untamed, curly hair and beard gave him a slightly sloppy look, a disguise that belied his sharp mind.
“You have something?”
“Did you doubt me?”
“Nope.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.” He took a final drag on his smoke, then led her inside, through a tiny living room complete with a huge, flat-screen TV and a single recliner surrounded by TV trays covered with remote controls for all the equipment plugged into the television, as well as the remains of what looked to be four or five meals on dirty paper plates. Green, Chilcoate clearly was not.
“In here,” he said as he stepped into a short hallway and opened the door to a bedroom that had been converted to his office. Inside was a desktop computer, several different laptops in varying sizes, telephones, and radio equipment. As geek-worthy as this place was, it was probably a front, just the tip of the electronic iceberg that was hidden away, where the real sophisticated electronics buzzed, hummed, and collected data she didn’t want to think about.
“What have you got?” she asked.
“The judge was pretty clean,” he said, “not much dirt to be found. I checked all of her computer logs, phone records, and went deep.” Meaning, she assumed, deeper and faster than the department had the time, manpower, or knowledge to plumb. “But she did apparently have a weak spot.”
He kicked out a secretary’s chair and sat, then nodded to a battered folding chair for Alvarez to occupy.
“And what was that?” she asked.
“Men.”
Alvarez lifted a brow.
“Here’s the judge’s profile, you’ll see she went by KC Sam often, or Kitty Sam or even Sammy Cat . . . she played around on a lot of dating sites, some pretty straightforward, a couple a little more . . . personal.”
“Kinky?”
“Mmm. But that’s not the interesting part. Here’s where things take a not-so-aboveboard turn.” He brought up a number of e-mails from an address she’d never seen before.
“What’re these?”
“Private account. On a different computer,” he said, “not any that you found. This one was registered to her husband, and my guess is it’s hidden somewhere. A friend’s house? A coworker’s office? Somewhere no one even knows it’s there.” He shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. “Here’s her most recent paramour.”
She saw the e-mail address. “CBer43?”
“I figure it’s so most people might think he’s a truck driver, but it’s really his initials.”
“Cort Brewster.” The sick feeling that had been with Alvarez ever since starting to question Brewster’s motives was back.
“Forty-three must mean something.”
“Part of the numbers of his badge,” she said, having seen it enough lately.
“Ahh . . . Even if people are trying to hide their ID, they usually make a name out of letters and numbers that they can remember. Want to see what they said?”
“Absolutely.”
“They weren’t all that clever, though they probably thought they were. This is nothing compared to some of the things I’ve seen, but here ya go. Over there.” He pointed to the computer screen set up in front of Alvarez’s chair and the e-mails began to appear. A seemingly endless list of messages claiming love and lust, talking about sexual positions and dates, and the gist of it was that the judge and Brewster were involved in a very hot affair, with the upshot being “Kitty” pressuring “CBer43” to get a divorce.
That, apparently, was her mistake. Cort Brewster wasn’t about to trade in his wife and four daughters and half of whatever he had, plus pay alimony and child support, all to become Mr. Judge Samuels-Piquard. No, Alvarez guessed, he much preferred to be seen as the upstanding family man, elder in the church, and cu
rrent sheriff of Pinewood County.
As if she’d finally been freed of a suffocating, blinding mask, she saw it all. The driving force behind the attacks. It had nothing to do with Maurice Verdago. The ex-con had only been a pawn.
But why would Verdago go along with Brewster’s plan? She thought of Wanda with her “cubic Z” ring, that Verdago had nearly killed his brother-in-law for skimming company profits, that when he’d gotten out of prison he’d worked as a janitor. It all boiled down to the simple fact that Maurice Verdago never seemed to have enough cash. He was the perfect fit for a hit man.
“Can you hack into bank accounts?” she asked, and Chilcoate looked at her over the tops of his glasses as if she’d asked him if he could walk. “I’m not admitting to that,” he said, “but you might want to check a private account at First Credit in Missoula. I’m guessing there might be a series of significant withdrawals. Cash. All under five grand, but totaling twenty-five.”
“Thousand? Twenty-five thousand?”
He shrugged and an icy chill ran down her back. Though twenty-five grand was a lot of money, it seemed a paltry amount for the price of a man’s life, or a woman’s, or both. She thought of Dan Grayson battling for his life, and Judge Samuels-Piquard lying in the snow, and even Carnie Tibalt, dead on the floor of a ramshackle cabin. Had Verdago actually taken the shots to kill the judge and the sheriff? Or had it been Brewster himself who’d used Maurice as a fall guy and then had set him up?
“I’ll need this info,” she said.
“As long as you don’t say where it came from.” Chilcoate smiled, showing slightly yellowed teeth. “I love being a part of taking that prick Brewster down.”
“Me too,” she said.
“It’s a fuckin’ shame that he got everything he wanted.”
Alvarez couldn’t agree more, but she was worried, too, because what Brewster had was only temporary. As long as Dan Grayson was alive.
Her blood chilled.
And now there was no guard at Grayson’s side.
There was talk that he would be moved from ICU.
He would be vulnerable.
But was it possible? Was Cort Brewster a cold-blooded killer? Had he made one failed attempt on the sheriff’s life and was he even now planning a second?
“E-mail me everything and send it from some fake account that only someone like you could untangle,” she ordered.
“I don’t know if I—”
“Just do it. ASAP. We don’t have any time.”
Brewster had been out most of the afternoon in meetings, talking to the press again, and, no doubt, planning his official campaign for the next election, so Pescoli knew she’d have no trouble leaving the department without him knowing.
All day long she’d been trying to tell herself that her instincts were off, that just because she didn’t like the guy, didn’t mean he was a bad cop. So he took over Grayson’s office? So what? Maybe his rifle really had been stolen.
He saved your life, Pescoli. You don’t like him. Fine. Doesn’t mean he’s all bad.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something during the investigation, and that it had to do with the acting sheriff. It bothered her, like a sliver that she couldn’t quite dislodge from beneath her skin.
When it was nearly four she headed out, bracing herself for the inevitable confrontation with her son and Heidi Brewster. And maybe good old Cort and Bess. The kids might have already asked him to meet them as well, to break the news.
Her stomach roiled at the thought and she tasted bile.
As she passed by Joelle at the front desk, she said, “Is Brewster due back today?”
She shook her head. “No.” She looked up from the box of red and pink hearts that she was sorting through. For Valentine’s Day. Of course. “I think he was going into Missoula for a meeting or was it another interview? I guess he didn’t really say.” She flashed a smile. “I told him he should visit the sheriff and he said he planned to.”
“Today?” Pescoli said and felt a niggle of fear.
“Mmm.” Studying the hearts, she sighed, then placed a lid on the box. “I’ve been told by the powers that be that I can’t decorate until February.” With a can-you-believe-it look at Pescoli, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I, for one, think we could use a little ray of sunshine around here. It’s just been so darn gloomy.”
“Amen,” Pescoli said, thinking that it wasn’t going to get better any time soon.
Once in her Jeep, she headed for the Brewsters’ home, a house she’d only visited once when Bess had hosted a celebration for Cort at the time of his promotion to undersheriff, years earlier. Located on the outskirts of town in a subdivision straight out of the 1970s, the Brewster home was a split-entry, with a garage under the main level and a daylight basement. Like most of the houses on the street, Cort and Bess’s was a big box of a house with enough bedrooms for all of the girls when they’d still been living at home. Now, only Heidi was left.
As she rounded the last corner, she spied Jeremy’s truck parked near the curb in front of the Brewster’s gray house, and she braced herself for the inevitable. Already, alone in her Jeep, she knew what she was going to hear.
“We want to keep the baby.”
“We’ll get married, Mom, it’s gonna be fine.”
“I can go to school and work, and Heidi can take care of the baby, maybe even babysit other people’s kids for some extra money.”
“We’ve got it all worked out. We’re adults now.”
But at least Heidi was old enough that Jeremy couldn’t be prosecuted for statutory rape. Dear God, how had it all come to this?
She was about to park behind Jeremy’s pickup when her phone rang. Alvarez’s name popped onto the screen. Half tempted to ignore the call, she was, after all, resigning from the department, she picked up nonetheless. For a little while longer she was still an employee of the PCSD. “Pescoli,” she said, slowing her Jeep to a crawl.
“I don’t have time to explain.” Alvarez sounded breathless. “But I think Grayson’s in danger.”
“In more danger?” she asked, slowing so that she could concentrate. A car was pulling up behind her.
“I think Verdago was set up.”
“Verdago?” A bad feeling started deep in her gut.
“Brewster’s the mastermind. Listen, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve got proof. My worry is that he may want to finish what he started with the sheriff.”
“He killed Verdago,” she reminded, for the first time that she could remember coming to the man’s defense.
“Not to save you. To silence him.”
“But . . .” As if a bolt of lightning suddenly struck her, she remembered Wanda Verdago referring to her husband’s hit list as the “Dirty Half Dozen.” Six people. Not seven. When she’d entered Davis Briscoe’s cabin, she’d seen six pictures on the table, pictures that included herself, an assistant D.A., a couple of witnesses in Verdago’s trial, Grayson, and Brewster. As she eased off the gas, she saw those photographs clearly in her mind’s eye. “Sweet Jesus.” That part of her brain that had been so blocked suddenly opened, the neurons firing wildly again.
Six pictures. Dirty half dozen. All on the desk. And yet Manny Douglas had received one in the mail.
So the killer must’ve fouled up and Verdago wouldn’t have. He would have focused on those who had done him dirt.
Brewster? With his quick claim to Grayson’s office? His need to become sheriff? It seemed so far-fetched.
“I don’t know.”
“He was crotch-deep in an affair with Judge Samuels-Piquard and she was pressuring him to marry her. He wasn’t going to give up his entire life.”
“This is your theory.”
“I’m getting proof now. My guess is that Brewster used his own key to get into the judge’s house; then he cleaned every surface and burned whatever it was in the den fireplace. Probably a calendar or love letters.”
Was it possible? The un
dersheriff? “I don’t know,” she heard herself say.
“Trust me on this one, Pescoli!”
It could be true, couldn’t it? Alvarez was always so careful. It wasn’t like her to jump to wild conclusions without facts.
The driver of the car behind her, a low-slung sports model, laid on the horn, then sped around the Jeep, spraying snow and slush as he roared past.
Pescoli barely noticed, so intent was she on the conversation. Through the windshield, she glanced up at Brewster’s All-American house in his All-American subdivision. “Has anyone tried to contact Brewster? I’m at his house now.”
“What? Why?”
“Long story. About Jeremy. He asked me to meet him here.”
“Be careful,” Alvarez warned. “Brewster seems to be MIA and so far, just you and I know about this. We don’t want to tip our hand. He’s already trigger-happy.”
“Got it. Let me check things out; then I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon.”
“No, wait. Don’t come here. I’m just pulling into the hospital’s lot,” Alvarez explained. “I called ahead and the staff said Grayson was fine, still resting, but I still thought I’d double-check, see for myself. Once I know he’s secure, that Brewster hasn’t come by and maybe given him something slow-acting, I’ll reinstate a guard. So give me five minutes. If I don’t call you, there’s trouble. Then alert hospital security and call in the cavalry. Missoula PD would be the closest.”
She clicked off and Pescoli, stunned, set her stopwatch. With one eye on the minutes and the second hand counting down, she studied the area. Nothing looked out of place. The house was blanketed in snow, tire tracks in the drive that led to a garage under one half of the house. Footprints were visible on the steps leading to the front door, one set crossing the yard. The biggest prints had originated at Jeremy’s truck.
For a second she wondered if Brewster was inside. If he’d gone so completely crazy that he’d kidnap her kid.
Don’t get caught up in this. Not yet. Alvarez isn’t one to flip out and not think things through. If she says she has evidence, then she probably does.