Expecting to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  Her stomach tightened. So that’s what this was about. “Okay.”

  “And I heard that you had a close encounter with a Sasquatch last night, that one of them chased you up around Reservoir Point. Is that right?”

  Again, she didn’t answer.

  Jeffe said, “You saw one.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Well, honey, it’s all over town. Bryant Tophman is one of our members. He let me know. Me and some of the other guys, organizers, y’know.”

  Tophman? Crap. That jerk-wad!

  “And he gave you my number?” She was pissed.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Why?” she asked, getting a bad feeling about all of this. “Why are you calling me?”

  “Well, see, Bianca, I’d like to talk to you, in person. Hear your story and, y’know, I thought maybe you’d like to come speak at our next meeting.”

  “Speak? As in give a lecture?”

  “Nothing that fancy.” He gave a raspy cough. “Just come in and tell the group what you saw. Over at the Sons of Grizzly Falls Hall. Tuesday night. Seven sharp, but you should show up a few minutes earlier, y’know, to get set up.”

  Was he crazy? Probably. She was shaking her head.

  As if he could see through the wireless connection, Jeffe upped the ante. “We serve coffee, soda, and cookies. And we’ve got some people who’re interested in what you’ve got to say. Important people.”

  Oh. Like. Sure. “No.”

  “Now, darlin’, come on, it would really help us. There’s been a rogue Big Foot seen up around Cougar Pass, and this may be the same one. A rogue. Loner. Any information you might have would be a big help.”

  Darlin’? Seriously?

  No way would she be a part of his carnival. She flashed on the massive smelly beast and his one glowing eye that had crashed through the underbrush while running after her. A shiver ran up her spine. “I don’t know what I saw last night,” she admitted.

  “Maybe I can help you with that.”

  “No!” she said, then, “No,” again and hung up. She dropped her phone as if it were radioactive. It was one thing for her to “think” she may have been accosted by a creature that was more myth than substance, another to have a complete stranger call her and invite her to speak at a meeting.

  And the next time she ran across Bryant Tophman, she was going to ream him out but good for giving out her number. “Idiot,” she muttered and glanced at the TV with its silent screen. A yearbook photo of Destiny Montclaire filled the screen. Bianca turned on the sound.

  “. . . discovered last night at Reservoir Point. Police are still searching the area where the body was found, trying to determine if the girl died from natural causes or if foul play was involved. If anyone has any information—”

  Her phone rang and she saw her mother’s number appear on the screen. “Hi,” she answered, still watching the newscast.

  “How’re ya doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “The ankle?”

  “Still hurts. Bad.”

  “Probably will for a while.”

  “Great.”

  “How about the rest of you?”

  “My lip hurts, too and my shoulder—” She glanced in the mirror, where she saw a bruise forming under the strap of her T-shirt. “It’s turning black and blue. And green.”

  “I was talking about your emotions. How’re you feeling? Detective Alvarez needs to talk to you and so we’ll be home in . . . probably about forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.”

  “I know. She called.” She glanced at the television again. A video of Reservoir Point rimmed in trees, the reporter walking up the path that bordered the creek where Destiny’s body had been caught in the roots of a tree.

  “I’ll be here,” she said and clicked off the television.

  * * *

  Pescoli hung up from Bianca and tried to tell herself that her daughter’s conversation with Alvarez was no big deal, that it happened all of the time, but she couldn’t convince herself. The fact that her daughter’s name was in the slightest way linked to the homicide investigation was unsettling.

  Bianca wasn’t under suspicion of anything, of course, but still . . . it was hard being on the other side of the interrogation table.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the scone on the way to work and a candy bar later in the day weren’t enough to sustain her and the baby that was due to arrive in the next three weeks. Scrounging in her bag, she located a protein bar deep in the bottom of her purse, then made a trip to the lunchroom, where she found a jar of instant decaffeinated coffee crystals that made the low-octane cup she’d grabbed at The Buzz seem like rocket fuel.

  Back at her desk, she’d no more than unwrapped the oat and peanut butter bar when her phone rang. She answered only to discover Manny Douglas on the other end of the connection.

  Her already bad day took a decided turn for the worse.

  The reporter was always looking for a big scoop, and she wasn’t in the mood today. Nor was she any day for that matter. She didn’t have a lot of use for the press and certainly not for Manny Douglas. He was a weasel of a man, a reporter who slanted everything he wrote while looking like a model for L.L. Bean or Orvis with his ever-present khakis, flannel shirts, and down vests.

  After identifying himself, he got right down to brass tacks. “I’m working on a piece for the Reporter about the body found up near Reservoir Point this morning. A young girl, in her teens, who has been identified as Destiny Rose Montclaire. Can you confirm?”

  “I’m sure the sheriff will hold a press conference about it.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Unknown.”

  “But there’s going to be an autopsy, yes?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And then you’ll know cause of death and whether or not this is a homicide.”

  “You know how it works. Again, the sheriff, or maybe the PIO, will speak to the press.” Currently there was no public information officer—the last one had quit earlier in the year—but Pescoli wasn’t about to elaborate.

  Ignoring her dodge, he plowed on, “There was a teen party up at the reservoir last night. Drinking, drugs.”

  “I can’t confirm that.”

  “And your daughter, Bianca, she was up there?”

  Pescoli’s irritation catapulted to anger. “No comment,” she said tightly. Bianca was a minor, and her name would be kept out of the papers. At least for now.

  “Rumor has it she thinks she was chased by a Big Foot.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “It’s all over social media. Could go viral.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “People all over the world are interested in the creature.”

  “The ‘creature’ doesn’t exist.”

  “Is that what your daughter says?” he asked.

  She wasn’t going to be lured back into that conversation. “Look, Manny, I’m busy here with a homicide investigation. If you want more information, call the sheriff.” She hung up, steamed, then forced herself to relax. There was a helluva lot of work yet to be done, and she didn’t have time for Manny Douglas and the Mountain Reporter.

  She was just closing her computer screen when Alvarez poked her head into the room and said, “Preliminary autopsy’s in on the Montclaire girl.”

  “That was quick. Good.”

  “I guess when Sheriff Blackwater speaks . . .”

  “Mountains are moved in the morgue.”

  “Seems so. As I said, just a preliminary, not complete. Toxicology won’t be for a while. You’ve got a copy. Email.” She pointed to Pescoli’s computer. “Definitely homicide.”

  “I just turned it off,” she said, switching on the monitor again. “Cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation.” Alvarez’s face was grim, her eyes dark as ebony. “She was strangled. Pressure so hard her neck snapped.
”

  “Ugh.”

  “Takes a helluva lot of strength,” Alvarez said. “Super-human.”

  “What about time of death?”

  “With the water and decomposition, it was impossible to pin down, but she’d been in the creek a while. The coroner’s saying a week, and I’m guessing she was killed the same night she went missing, or soon thereafter, so a week ago Friday, but who knows? Could have been Saturday or possibly even Sunday.”

  “We need alibis for the weekend.”

  “Uh-huh. Let’s start with Friday night, work our way into Saturday. I’ve already asked Zoller to double-check all the people who knew the victim, those we won’t get to today.”

  “Good.”

  “And there’s something else that came up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She was pregnant. About two months along.”

  Pescoli let out a low whistle, unconsciously touching her abdomen and thinking of the baby soon to be born. “So that makes it a double homicide.”

  “Yes.” Alvarez was grim.

  “If Donny Justison’s the father, the mayor’s son just moved up on the suspect list.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “He could have known about it; she could have told him.” Pescoli didn’t like the turn of her thoughts. “Could be our motive.”

  “Or, it could be the killer didn’t know.”

  “This just keeps getting worse.”

  “That it does.”

  “Do the Montclaires know?”

  She nodded. “I thought they should be the first to find out.”

  “You talked to them?”

  “Mmm. Just a second ago, on the phone. Actually spoke with Glenn. At first he denied it could be possible, but then he turned right around and said that Donald Justison Junior was the . . . let’s see, ‘son of a damned bitch’ who was responsible and that I should just go out and arrest him before something happened to him.”

  “Glenn threatened to do something to Justison?”

  Alvarez tipped her hand back and forth in a “maybe, maybe not” gesture. “Worth watching.”

  “Crap.”

  Alvarez glanced at the clock. “You ready to go?”

  “More than ready. God save me from more paperwork.”

  “I told the Montclaires we’d be over, to go through their daughter’s room, double-check for the missing phone, and grab her laptop. Then, I want to talk to Bianca, but now, in light of this recent development, I want to check in with Donny Justison.”

  Pescoli slipped her cell phone into her bag. “I thought the mayor wanted us to stay away from her kid.”

  Alvarez’s lips twisted into a cold smile. “All the more reason to talk to him ASAP, don’t you think?”

  “Didn’t Carolina call Blackwater and tell him to back off or something?”

  “She sure did.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Alvarez’s smile became icier. “ ‘Put him at the top of the list.’”

  “Good.” That was a surprise, she thought as she found her sidearm. Maybe Blackwater was more of a cop and less of an ass-kisser than she’d originally imagined.

  “Justison may have been the last person to contact Destiny,” Alvarez said. “I’m still waiting for her phone records. The cell carrier promised them today.”

  “We haven’t located her cell phone?”

  “Not yet. The parents had a GPS tracker installed, but somehow it was disabled.”

  Pescoli clicked off the desk fan. “Destiny was probably a hell of a lot more technologically savvy than her folks. She could have turned it off herself. There’s an app for everything these days.”

  “Glenn Montclaire even went so far as to call the phone and walk around his house and property, hoping to hear it, but no answer. Our guys did the same thing in the area where the body was found. Nothing. Either it’s turned off or lost or . . .”

  “With the killer,” Pescoli said before snagging her bag and following Alvarez out of the building to a blast of August heat. Though shadows were lengthening from the trees planted at the edges of the parking lot, the asphalt was sunbaked, the street shimmering with heat waves.

  With a click of a remote, Alvarez unlocked her Subaru, an SUV she’d purchased recently. She’d parked the Outback nose-in, the front bumper nearly touching the brick wall of the backside of the station. Black and gleaming, the car soaked up the rays from the afternoon sun.

  As they slipped into the sweltering interior, Alvarez said, “Did I forget to mention that Donny Justison was on the wrestling team in high school? He made allstate.”

  “So strong as an ox.”

  “Maybe superhuman,” Alvarez agreed as she twisted her key into the ignition.

  Was Alvarez buying into the whole “Big Foot in the woods” theory? No way. Not down-to-earth, stick-to-the-facts Selena Alvarez. “Don’t even go there,” Pescoli growled as she yanked her door shut.

  “Don’t go where?”

  “To the far-fetched. Okay?” Sweat was beading on her brow and between her shoulder blades. “Bianca’s already mentioning monsters chasing her, and Lex Farnsby is talking Sasquatch. You know, like there’s a Big Foot running around the foothills. Holy crap, it’s boiling in here. How about some air?”

  “Just give it a sec.” Alvarez fiddled with the temperature controls. “I’m not talking about Big Foot. What do you take me for? I’m thinking maybe our guy, a big, strong guy, is hyped up on drugs. I knew a guy in high school who snapped a guy’s forearm during a wrestling match and he wasn’t trying to do his opponent harm, not really, just wanted the pin.” She adjusted her sunglasses before backing out. “And you always hear about in times of great stress like during an accident, with adrenaline pumping through his body, a guy’s able to lift a car off a kid or rip a door from its hinges. Superhuman strength.” She shot Pescoli a look. “So, let’s just say, we’ve got a guy who’s intent on murder, and he’s already fired up anticipating the crime.”

  “Maybe someone who doesn’t want a baby screwing up his plans?”

  She twisted her neck to look out the rear of the vehicle, rammed the gearshift into reverse, and began backing out. “So, now he’s pumped up, right, in a rage? Adrenaline flowing through his bloodstream, maybe steroids or whatever’s amping him up adding to the mix, and good old testosterone driving the show. Just how tough would it be for a big guy, a trained fighter, to snap a small woman’s neck?” She hit the brakes and put the Outback into drive. “Piece of cake.”

  A bad taste filled Pescoli’s throat as she wrestled into her seat belt and flipped down her visor. At least a waft of cool air had begun to filter through the vents.

  As Alvarez eased on the gas and pulled out of the lot, Pescoli’s cell phone buzzed. Plucking it from her bag, she glanced at the screen and inwardly groaned. Her ex-husband.

  Great. Just what she needed. A chat with Lucky.

  Because of Bianca’s recent trip to the hospital, she took the call. “This will just take a sec,” she told Alvarez, then answered: “What’s up?” No need for pleasantries.

  “I was checking on Bianca.”

  “She’s at home. You could call her.”

  “I did.”

  “And?” She slid on a pair of sunglasses and stared out the window. Despite the heat, the sidewalks of the upper level of Grizzly Falls were crowded with pedestrians and skateboarders, women with strollers, joggers, and a few people walking dogs. Strip malls and restaurants lined the street, where traffic moved smoothly. This part of town, sprawling toward the foothills, was the newer area of Grizzly Falls. The older, original section of town lay upon the banks of the Grizzly River, just below the falls for which the town was named.

  “I wanted your take on things,” Lucky said.

  That was a surprise. In their few years of a tumultuous marriage, he’d rarely wanted to hear what she had to say. A truck driver who was handsome, charming, and as slippery as an eel, he had been a big believer in asking forgiveness rather
than permission. In Pescoli’s opinion, it hadn’t been a question of permission or forgiveness, but rather what should have been a discussion. Instead of a meeting of the minds, she and Luke had been forever butting heads. Still were. And she didn’t trust him.

  “She’ll survive. Despite what she says, she won’t be scarred for life.”

  “Physically, ya mean.”

  “Right. I think she’ll put everything else in perspective, though. It’ll take time.”

  “Pretty tough.”

  She thought about the first time she’d seen a body. It had been her grandfather in a casket, and even that had been creepy for an eleven-year-old. “Real tough. And, she thinks she may have known the victim.”

  “The victim? Oh, the dead girl? Yeah . . . yeah, of course.” He cleared his throat. “Real hard.”

  Something was off here. “What did you think I was talking about?”

  “Come on, Regan. Bianca was chased through the woods with a Sasquatch bearing down on her. Has to be traumatic.”

  “Oh my God, you too?” She nearly clapped her hand to her forehead in exasperation.

  “They’ve been spotted all around here,” he said defensively.

  “But no one has pictures or bones or even any spoor.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Please.”

  “They’re real, Regan.”

  “Says who?” She caught herself being sucked into an argument. Again. “Never mind. Look, I’m working. I’ll check on Bianca. Alvarez needs to talk to her.”

  “You mean like, interview her?”

  “Yes.” Was he being even more dense than ever?

  “Because of the dead girl.”

  Two for two.

  “Shouldn’t I be there? She’s underage. Needs a parent.”

  “I’m her parent,” she reminded shortly.

  “You’re a cop.”

  She let that settle in for a few beats. Didn’t immediately rise to the bait.

  “I’m on my way,” Lucky told her.

  “Not necessary. Really.” The last thing she needed was Lucky all of a sudden playing daddy.

  “She needs an advocate. A real parent.”

  “One who believes in Big Foot?”

  “Face it, Regan, you’re a cop first and a parent second,” he said tightly.