by Lisa Jackson
“Now, Detective, let’s be honest. Even if you did have any baby stuff, it’s probably packed away where you can never find it.” Joelle skated a quick look over the cluttered surface of Pescoli’s work space.
Oh, come on. The mess wasn’t that bad.
“You haven’t even told us if you’re having a boy or girl.”
“We don’t know.”
A hand flew to Joelle’s chest, her splayed fingers tipped in polish the exact match to her lipstick. “But everyone knows ahead of time these days!”
“Santana and I are a little old school.”
Joelle sighed. “I don’t get it. If you knew the child’s sex, you could decorate the nursery appropriately and buy little outfits and be ahead of the game, you know?” Pescoli tossed her purse into a desk drawer as Joelle asked, “Why don’t you want to know?”
“We want to be surprised.” Why was she even having this conversation? “Look Joelle, I appreciate the offer, for the shower. Really. I think I told you that already?” She eyed the woman still standing resolutely on the far side of the desk. “But seriously, no thanks. I’m just not up for it.”
The twinkle went out of the receptionist’s eyes as she realized she wasn’t going to talk Pescoli into changing her mind, and it was that moment Pescoli realized that Joelle had already made serious plans involving invitations, menu, party games, and gifts. Oh. Dear. God.
Before she could say anything else, quick footsteps in the hallway heralded her partner’s arrival. “Hey!” Alvarez, looking fresh as a damned daisy, stuck her head through the open doorway. “How’s Bianca?”
“She’ll live. Out of the hospital, now at home, nursing a cut on her chin, sore shoulder, sprained ankle, and bruised ego.”
“Your daughter?” Joelle said with a small gasp. “What happened?”
Just check Facebook for the latest, Pescoli thought, surprised that the receptionist, who was always first to know the local gossip, had missed any news. “An accident at a party. She’s okay.”
“What accident?” she asked. “Oh . . . did this happen at the party where they found the body of that poor girl?” From the outer reaches of the hallway, a phone started ringing insistently. Joelle caught the noise. “Damn.” She hated to be left out of the gossip loop but duty was calling. “Please, Detective, just think about the shower.” Joelle maneuvered past Alvarez and started down the corridor. “When you change your mind, just let me know,” she said with a smile as she bustled toward the reception area of the department.
“I will,” Pescoli said, then, as the familiar clicks of Joelle’s high heels faded, added, “Just after hell freezes over.”
“I heard that!” Joelle’s voice reached Pescoli.
Alvarez cast a final glance at the retreating receptionist. “What was that all about?”
Pescoli finally settled into her chair. “Long story.” At the curiosity in Alvarez’s expression, she rolled her eyes. “It’s the same thing she’s been bugging me with ever since my pregnancy seemed to go viral around this office.” She scowled. “Joelle wants to throw me a baby shower. Invite everyone who works here. Can you imagine?”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes, it’s a bad thing. I told her I’m not up for it. Pink and blue streamers and balloons and a silly game or two? Come on.”
“So Joelle gave up without a fight?” Her voice was full of disbelief.
“Probably not. As I said, we’ve been having this discussion for months.” She stretched out her back and heard it pop.
“Maybe you should just give in.”
Pescoli shot her a look. “I’ll think about it. Maybe.” She paused. “Then again, maybe not. So, why don’t you bring me up to speed on the Montclaire case?”
“It’s the reason I’m here.” While Alvarez explained about meeting the grieving parents as they’d ID’d their daughter’s body, then compiling a list of possible suspects and evidence while waiting for the autopsy results, Pescoli listened and sipped the so-called coffee. With zero kick, the decaf blend didn’t have the desired effect that caffeine would have supplied to her bloodstream. She really shouldn’t have bothered except that the scone she’d devoured on the ten-minute drive had temporarily quieted the rumble in her belly.
Alvarez finished with, “Then the mayor called. Right after eight this morning.”
“Did she?” Not much of a surprise. Pescoli was definitely not a fan, but, for once, she tried not to show her distaste of the new mayor of Grizzly Falls.
Carolina Justison had once been a stockbroker in New York. About fifteen years ago, after a scandal at the brokerage both she and her husband had worked for, she’d divorced the “lying bastard,” packed up her son, who just happened to be her ex’s namesake, and headed west. She’d landed in Grizzly Falls. Though she had insisted she was in search of a simpler life, she’d fallen back on her old ways and opened her own investment firm before eventually running for mayor. She’d squeaked by in an election that had been so close a recount had been initiated.
So much for her supposed dream of the simple life.
“She talked to Blackwater and he relayed her message.” As a fax machine screeched and burped in a nearby office, Alvarez balanced on the arm of one of the visitor’s chairs. It was damned amazing how irritatingly thin and agile the woman was. “Then, she called again. This time to speak directly with me.”
“Fabulous.”
“She wants to let us know that—”
Pescoli held up a hand. “Let me guess. This has something to do with her son being caught and cited up at Reservoir Point.”
“Bingo.”
“Another stab in the dark: she’s not happy.”
That scared up a smile on Alvarez’s lips. Pescoli already knew her partner had been up all night, but looked fresh and ready to take on the world. How was that even possible? The room was hot and stuffy, the air conditioner rattling but unable to compete with the heat from a glaring Montana sun.
“She’s not just unhappy, she’s ‘absolutely mortified’ and I quote, that her son could be considered a part of this ‘difficult situation.’ And yeah, she called it that. The ‘difficult situation up at Reservoir Point.’ I guess she heard herself, though, because she did acknowledge that it was a tragedy, of course, but that her Donny had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with what happened to the ‘poor girl,’ even though Donald Junior dated Destiny Rose for nearly a year before he broke up with her. Destiny was a little brokenhearted, but ‘you know how that is with teenagers.’”
“She wasn’t exactly empathetic.”
“No.”
“Trying to cover her son’s ass.” Pescoli leaned back in her chair. “You think he’s involved some way?”
“Too early to tell. But Glenn Montclaire, Destiny’s father, mentioned Donny. And he said the break-up was the other way around, that Destiny cut Donny loose and he didn’t much like it, even started stalking her.”
“So Donny said he was the dumper, rather than the dumpee, but Glenn Montclaire says otherwise.”
“And Helene Montclaire as well.”
“The Montclaires actually pointed at Justison?”
Alvarez nodded. “Said if there was any evidence of foul play we should take a long, hard look at Donald Justison Junior.”
“Then I guess we will.”
“Already on the top of the list.”
The case was morphing into a true mess. The mayor’s son and a dead girl?
“And Carolina Justison was only the first parent to call.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“It started early.” Alvarez had made notes and checked a memo-taking app on her cell phone. “Besides Mayor Justison, I had a pretty lengthy conversation with Billie O’Hara. She’s actually a twofer.”
“Twofer?”
“Two-for-one. Assured me that both her sons, Alex and TJ, are totally innocent.” Alvarez glanced up from her cell. “Of what I’m not sure. She wasn’t specific, so I’m going wi
th innocent in general.”
“Of all criminal activity or mischief or whatever,” Pescoli thought aloud. “Sounds like her. Pretty high-maintenance and by the book. Rigid. Type-A through and through, and a fitness instructor to boot. Participates in triathlons, maybe even an Ironman or two, I don’t really know, but I think she hauls her bike over to the West Coast every year and rides it all over the state in some organized race.”
“Cycle Oregon?”
“You know it?”
“Heard of it.”
Pescoli nodded, her damned stomach rumbling again despite the protein bar she’d devoured driving to work. “They ride over mountains and by the ocean and across the desert, all across the state. Hundreds of miles. Route changes each year. Takes like a week or something. I know because, when Joe was alive, he was always trying to talk me into it,” she said, bringing up her first husband, Jeremy’s father. “He took up bicycling for a while. That was twenty years ago or so, but I think it’s basically the same,” she said a little sadly. Theirs hadn’t been an even-keeled marriage, not by a long shot. They’d both been young and bullheaded and, she had to admit, she’d been even more volatile then than she was now. But Officer Joe Strand had been a pretty good man, a great officer of the law, and a so-so husband. Both he and Regan had fought the bonds of marriage and parenthood. Then, suddenly, just when she’d hoped the marriage would straighten out, he’d been killed in the line of duty. Her heart still twisted a bit. Survivor’s guilt never quite let go of you.
She took another sip of her now-tepid coffee and snapped herself out of her melancholy thoughts. “Anyway, Billie O’Hara is into fitness in a big way,” she said.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“The point is that whatever she does, whatever Billie focuses on, she has the intensity of an eagle diving for a fish in a lake. Whether it’s an athletic event, or a position on the school board, or her job at the athletic club, she makes certain she wins. Always ends up on top.”
“And expects the same of her boys?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like you know her. Personally.”
“I did. A while back. Before she got into the fitness thing. She was just another mom at the preschool. A widow. Lost her husband to a logging accident when the boys were still in elementary school. She’s always been fiercely protective of her kids. Never saw that they did any wrong and I think, for the most part, she’s right.” Pescoli shifted in the chair. “Is it just me or is it like the middle of the Mojave Desert in here?” To cool off, she lifted her hair off her neck.
“It’s you.”
Of course it was. She found the tiny fan situated on the far side of her computer and pressed the switch. Air started flowing, blowing across her face and ruffling some papers. She adjusted the direction and the pages settled back down. “So the deal is that I know most of the parents of the kids that were at the party last night, or at least I’ve been introduced to them over the years. I met some when our kids were in preschool, then saw them over the years as my kids went through elementary and junior high school. The O’Hara boys, both of ’em, attended Good Feelings.”
“Good Feelings?”
“The preschool.”
“Seriously?”
“I know, I know. Sounds a little granola.”
“A little?”
“I think the owners were trying to do something with the letters in Grizzly Falls, and since the image of a grizzly bear doesn’t quite fit with the warm and cuddly tone of preschool, they took the letters G and F and came up with Good Feelings.” At Alvarez’s smile, Pescoli added, “Yeah, it was a little ‘Kumbaya’ for me, but everything else was too strict or too religious or too expensive. Anyway, the O’Hara boys, Lara Haas, Bryant Tophman—for a while before his dad’s church came up with their own—and Kywin Bell all went to Good Feelings at one point or another. Austin Reece and Simone Delaney, and oh, Maddie Averill, too, I think, but I’m not sure how long some of them were there. It was a long time ago. I guess all that ‘peace be with you’ didn’t rub off on all of them.”
“Teenagers are a whole different breed of cat from who they were as preschoolers.”
“Can’t argue there.” Both Jeremy and Bianca had once been sweet and innocent as young children, only to turn into rebellious hellions in high school. She took a final sip of her decaf and drained the paper cup before crushing it and tossing it into the trash. “I’m thinking you might have a few more parents who phoned in. I’m willing to guess that Wilda Wyze called too.”
“Kywin Bell’s mother.” Her gaze slid to her notes. “Yep. Bright and early.”
“So her son is misunderstood as well?”
“She actually wasn’t all defensive. Just wanted to know the score and seemed worried. Said she was afraid that he had some bad influences in his life.”
Pescoli said, “She’s talking about her ex?”
“Franklin Bell. Yeah. He’s called about three times, but I’ve missed him. I have a list of parents to call back. But first things first.”
“Destiny Rose Montclaire.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what’s next?”
“A little bit of a waiting game.” She explained about the parents ID-ing their daughter, that the autopsy hadn’t been started despite the “rush” that both she and Blackwater had requested. “Later today, I’m told,” she added, then shared a partial list of persons of interest, those who were closest to the victim, including the Justison kid, should it be proven that Destiny had been the victim of foul play.
“She was on the periphery of the crowd that gathered last night,” Alvarez wound up. “Knew some of the kids, such as Justison and the O’Hara boys. But the others claimed they were basically only acquaintances. They knew of her, but had never hung out.”
“Like Bianca. She had her in an English class.”
“I’m going to have to speak to her,” Alvarez reminded her.
“I know. I told her someone would call and set up an interview. You need her cell number?”
“Already got it.”
“Okay, just let me know when you set it up.”
“Probably this afternoon,” Alvarez said as her phone buzzed. Answering, she held up a hand to end the conversation, then walked into the hallway, leaving Pescoli to really dig in to her work day a few minutes after noon.
CHAPTER 8
Bianca slept until nearly four in the afternoon, only waking when she tried to turn over and the pain in her ankle brought her to the surface. Or the nightmares of monsters and dead girls with flaxen hair and black empty eye sockets startled her awake. Each time, she would fall back to sleep. She finally roused and found Cisco curled up next to her. After her mother’s pointed comments earlier, Bianca had turned off her phone and now clicked it on. It had blown up with messages while she’d been asleep, dozens of texts and four unanswered calls. Despite what she’d halfheartedly promised, she checked her texts and listened to her voice mail, but whoever had been calling hadn’t left a message.
“Your loss,” she said to the empty room.
For now, she ignored the texts. She wasn’t in the mood to rehash what had happened the night before.
And she was still mad at Maddie for ditching her.
She rolled over, and Cisco, who had snoozed the day away with her, gave out a startled yelp, then bounced to the floor.
“Sorry,” Bianca said around a yawn.
She felt awful. Groggy and sore. In a bad mood.
Clumsily, because of the damned cast that couldn’t get wet, Bianca wrapped her ankle in plastic, then forced herself through the shower. Afterward, she found a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then managed to get dressed. Her hair was wet, curly, and currently a dark blond that she wasn’t that crazy about, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She pulled it away from her face into a wet, messy bun and didn’t bother with makeup. She looked like a freak anyway with the scrapes and bruises visible on her face and bare arms. And where could she go wi
th the stupid soft cast?
Nowhere.
Not that she had anywhere she needed to be.
She worked part-time as a waitress at a local diner, but had already left a message with the manager that she’d be out of commission for a few weeks, so she was stuck here, at home with the dogs and her cell phone.
“Lame,” she said into her reflection, then grimaced at the sight of her messed-up face. She felt bad about Destiny. Dear God, no one should end up rotting in a creek. And though she hadn’t admitted it to her nosy cop of a mother, the kids who’d been up at Reservoir Point were asking her a million questions about the girl. Somehow they’d all figured out the victim was Destiny, long before Mom had shown up in Bianca’s room this morning.
She hobbled down the stairs, made her way into the kitchen, and then, hearing her phone ring again, cursed herself for leaving the damned thing on her bed. She muttered as she grabbed a container of mixed berry yogurt and a spoon, then headed up the stairs again. Of course she didn’t reach her room by the time the phone had stopped ringing, and of course whoever it was who’d phoned—PRIVATE CALLER was listed on the small screen—didn’t leave a message.
As she dug into the yogurt, she perused her texts, discovered nothing new, and switched on her television, a recent addition to her room, compliments of Dad and Michelle, a gift for her seventeenth birthday.
The phone rang again, and this time, she snagged it from the bed and answered with one hand while muting the TV with her other.
“Is this Bianca Pescoli?” a husky male voice asked when she answered.
“Yes.”
“My name is Carlton Jeffe, and I live here in Grizzly Falls. You may have heard of me.”
She hadn’t but didn’t say so and waited for him to go on.
“Well, see, I’m the president of our local club, the BFBs. Y’know, the Big Foot Believers.”