by Lisa Jackson
“What?” she nearly shouted. She thought of all the years that she’d raised the kids alone while holding down a full-time, more-than-demanding job as a homicide detective. The carpools, the shuttling kids, the school meetings, the sports or dance performances, the tears and laughter. How she’d dealt with Jeremy and his girlfriend and his once-upon-a-time affiliation with alcohol and marijuana. How she’d worried over Bianca’s self-esteem and the boys who were forever sniffing around her.
And where had Lucky been?
Living his life. Free and easy. Married to a woman barely older than his stepson, a life-sized Barbie doll who spent hours getting “mani-pedis” and facials and spent her days tanning or reading online celebrity blogs.
“I am Bianca’s advocate,” she asserted, stressing every word. Out of the corner of her eye, Alvarez slid her a questioning look. “I’ll handle this, Lucky.” She didn’t bother saying good-bye, just hung up. “All of a sudden, that deadbeat’s worried about Bianca.”
“She is hurt.”
“I know, but she’s been hurt before and he’s always thought a quick phone call and an even quicker ‘Love ya, princess’ were the extent of his fatherly duties. And he acts like this Big Foot thing is real.”
Pescoli shook her head in frustration. Damn Lucky. He always knew how to complicate everything. And if he played into Bianca’s fears with this Sasquatch stuff .. . it would make her want to rip her hair out.
But Bianca saw something . . . something large and frightening....
Whatever it was, it sure as hell wasn’t good.
CHAPTER 9
The Montclaires were devastated and numb at the murder of their child. They wanted their daughter’s remains released so that they could plan a service, but could barely talk about Destiny without breaking down. Helene had a washed-out look. In jeans and a blouse, she hadn’t bothered with makeup, her thinning blond hair lank, her eyes red-rimmed. Glenn was a big man with the beginnings of a belly hanging over his belt, his hair thin though he appeared to be in his early forties.
He talked to Alvarez and Pescoli while his wife worked hard to stem the tears. Twisting a nearly shredded Kleenex, she remained on a worn leather couch as Glenn led the detectives down a short hallway to Destiny’s room.
Pescoli’s heart was heavy as she eyed the room, neat and tidy, probably straightened up, with a twin bed with a thick black and white striped quilt and tall posts that had once, it seemed, held a canopy. A dresser and night table were the only other furniture atop a vinyl floor softened by a white shag rug that was starting to gray. A poster from Frozen seemed at odds with the head shots of teen heartthrobs that decorated the walls. A corkboard held ticket stubs and photos, a report card and a wrist corsage that had long wilted and dried—memories of a life cut short. But not one picture of Donald Justison. There were a few shots of friends tacked to the corkboard. Donny wasn’t in them.
Odd, Pescoli thought as she searched a pillowcase and the pillow inside.
Glenn Montclaire stared into the room where his daughter had grown up and Pescoli guessed he was seeing his child in his mind. “Have at it,” he said, as if suddenly snapping to. “Just please respect our daughter, okay? Her mother . . . Helene would be very upset if things were disturbed too much.”
“We’ll be careful,” Alvarez said.
“Fine.” He blinked, fighting tears. “Then get on with it.”
“Did she have a laptop or tablet?” Alvarez asked.
He nodded, walking to the nightstand and opening the top drawer. A small, silver laptop was tucked next to a box of tissues, some open packs of gum, and change.
Pescoli asked, “What about credit cards?”
“She would borrow ours if she was going shopping, but no, she didn’t have her own. I told this all to the officer when I gave the missing persons report.”
Alvarez nodded. “Thanks.”
“I just want you to know she was a good girl. Good. Despite all this talk about her being pregnant.” His voice cracked.
Pescoli had thought he might stick around, but he held on to the doorframe for a second, then, with a sad shake of his head, said, “You get the guy who did this. You get Donny Justison.”
“We’re not sure who did this,” Pescoli said.
“Justison,” he repeated, then left them alone. They looked through her closet and bureau, the nightstand and the bed, underneath the mattress and box springs, even searching for hidey-holes in the walls or floor.
Other than the laptop, they found nothing that would help. They took the computer with them, leaving the Montclaires to their grief.
“It never gets any easier,” Alvarez said as she climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
“Never.” Pescoli slid into the passenger seat, buckled in, and stared out the window. “Justison place?”
“Let’s see what Donny has to say.” She threw a look toward the house, where, through the picture window, she could see Destiny’s folks seated on the couch, close together. “The Montclaires, or at least Glenn, think he’s the doer.”
“Early days yet.”
“I want to know what his alibi is. Wish we had a time of death.”
“Yeah, stop by Midway okay? I’m starving.” And that was the truth. At least it felt that way. Ever since she’d learned she was pregnant, she couldn’t inhale enough food and it was a problem. But not one she could solve today.
Alvarez made the stop, and inside the small burger joint with its 1950s motif, they found a table near a bank of windows. A long L-shaped counter guarded the area leading to the kitchen, and a handful of patrons were sitting on stools, while other diners filled the tables scattered between the counter and windows.
A tall redheaded waitress with a bad attitude and a name tag that read MISTY took their orders. Pescoli asked for a cheeseburger and a sparkling water while Alvarez settled on a chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side, and an iced tea with lemon.
While waiting to be served, Alvarez and Pescoli talked over the case and the suspects, and then Alvarez went over the autopsy. “No water found in her lungs, so she probably wasn’t killed in the creek. Her hyoid bone was crushed, consistent with strangulation, and the only thing of any significance was a tiny bit of what looks like latex found under two of her fingernails.”
“Latex?” Pescoli repeated, then thought about it, how Destiny had probably been trying to pry the killer’s hands from her neck. “As in gloves?”
“Maybe. The lab is looking into it. The pieces are tiny. But definitely latex as opposed to nitrile or vinyl.”
“Or cloth or leather.”
“Uh-huh,” she said as a sizzling noise emanated from the kitchen, as if a fresh batch of sliced potatoes or frozen shrimp or the like had been lowered into the deep fat fryer.
“Could be a break?” Pescoli asked.
“All of the hospitals, clinics, dental offices, you name it, use latex gloves. You can pick up a pack at your local supermarket, or drug store, or online, so they’re easily attainable.”
“Still . . . it’s something.”
“Yeah.” Alvarez nodded. “Something. I hope.”
Misty returned with their orders. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked without a lot of enthusiasm.
Pescoli eyed the pieces of her put-it-together-yourself burger. “Just ketchup.”
“I’m good,” Alvarez said, and Misty, slanting a look at Pescoli’s belly, turned to a table tucked near the swinging doors to the kitchen, where rows of condiments were lined like tiny plastic soldiers getting ready for a twenty-mile march. She retrieved a squirt bottle of ketchup and dropped it onto the table as Pescoli began placing the sliced onion, lettuce, and tomato on the open face of her cheeseburger.
Pescoli asked, “No DNA?”
“No. And due to decomp, not much we could find on the body, like blood from the assailant if there was some. The only reason we got the bits of latex is that it doesn’t decompose quickly, even though it’s biodegradable.”
> “Long shelf life.”
“Yeah.” Alvarez drizzled a little dressing onto her salad and dug in.
Once her sandwich was stacked and the French fries covered with ketchup, Pescoli took a bite and nearly sighed in relief. The burger tasted like heaven. As for the fries, she might taste them all afternoon, but she didn’t care. For now, she could quiet the rumbling in her belly, satisfy her hunger, and regroup before the next interview.
* * *
The Justison residence was one of a dozen or so imposing houses that had been built along the ridge overlooking the river, all with views of the falls for which the town was named. Most of the homes had been built before the turn of the last century, and from the street they stood, constructed of brick and stone, their mullioned windows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.
“What do we know about this kid, other than that he dated the victim, graduated from the local high school, and was a wrestler?” Pescoli asked.
“Is. He still wrestles for the University of Montana.”
“So not that far away,” Pescoli said. “A road trip to Missoula, weather permitting, takes less than an hour.”
“Uh-huh. He lives near campus during the year, but, as I understand it, he’s home for the summer. He’s had a few minor brushes with the law, but Mom and Dad have worked hard to make sure all charges have been dropped.”
“What’s he doing this summer?”
“That’s what we’re about to find out.” She pulled into the drive.
The Justison home was a boxy Georgian building constructed of red brick, paned windows, and a wide front porch flanked by gas-lit sconces. Black shutters framed floor-to-ceiling windows, a wrought-iron balcony rail stretched overhead and matched the fence surrounding the yard. A huge chandelier was poised to illuminate the porch, and a fountain splashed and bubbled in the center of the lawn. All in all, the home was imposing, a mansion by Grizzly Falls’s standards.
Alvarez parked in front of a building that appeared to be a carriage house that had been converted into a garage. Out with the horses, in with a Ford Minivan or Ferrari or Prius, depending on one’s taste. The mayor, who had once proclaimed to want a simpler life, had apparently done very well for herself since her move to western Montana.
A dusty four-by-four was parked in front of the garage. A Jeep Wrangler. The same rig had been parked at Reservoir Point the night before and, as they’d already discovered, was registered to Donald Justison Junior.
So, unless Donny had gone off with a friend or his mother, he was home.
Good.
Alvarez and Pescoli headed to the grand porch with its front door—actually, two huge doors—flanked by narrow beveled windows and guarded by flowerpots overflowing with blooms of red, white, and blue. The sidelights offered a glimpse into a marble-floored foyer with a sweeping staircase. Alvarez poked the doorbell and heard the peal of chimes from within. Then silence. No footsteps. They waited on the brick stoop, Alvarez noting a few honeybees buzzing through the hedge of lavender that grew beneath the windows of the first story, Pescoli tapping the toe of one boot impatiently.
Still no sign of life from inside the house.
Selena exchanged a look with Pescoli, who, swearing under her breath, hit the bell and held it down for a full five seconds. She was sweating, now shifting from one foot to the other, as the chimes rang. “He’s here,” she said. “The little coward. Probably saw us pull up.”
Selena wasn’t so sure.
Pescoli shook her head in frustration. She was due to have the baby within the month, her leave of absence slated to begin next week, all things being equal. Which they weren’t. But now, despite the impending birth, she knew she wouldn’t want to leave the department until the case was solved.
“Screw this,” Pescoli muttered and took a swipe at the perspiration beading her brow. “He’s not home or not answering . . . or—wait a sec.” Holding up a finger, she cocked her head, and that’s when they both heard the familiar slap of a basketball hitting concrete, then the accompanying thwang of a hoop as a ball bounded against it. With a hitch of her head toward the corner of the house near the garage, Pescoli said, “Let’s go.”
They skirted the house, followed the driveway to the backyard, then stepped through an open wrought-iron gate, which had been cut into a ten-foot-high hedge of arborvitae. Inside, they saw Donald Justison Junior, shirtless, in basketball shorts, shooting hoops at a private sport court that, Alvarez noted, appeared to be multipurpose, if someone preferred tennis over basketball.
Only nineteen, he was definitely a man, and a big one at that, several inches over six feet. With a mop of brown hair, now covered in sweat, and sculpted muscles that gleamed beneath hair that grew not only on his legs but on his arms and the backs of his hands, he moved quickly around the court. His chest was shaved, but growing back to shadow his pecs and arrow down into his shiny silver shorts, which hung low on his waist.
He must’ve caught sight of them from the corner of his eye as he launched an arcing shot that hit the rim, robbing him of his expected three points. He swore under his breath, then jogged after the ball, which was bouncing toward a corner of the court. He grabbed it, spun, tried for a short jumper; missed. Another quiet oath under his breath. No wonder he was a wrestler rather than on the basketball team.
“Donald Justison Junior?” Pescoli asked.
“Yeah?” He snatched the retreating ball and tucked it under his arm before turning to face her and the badge she was holding up. He actually rolled his eyes. “I know who you are, Mrs. Pescoli. Bianca’s mom.”
“Today I’m Detective Pescoli,” she said without the hint of a smile. “Just so we understand each other. This is my partner, Detective Alvarez.”
He nodded. “We met.”
“Last night at Reservoir Point,” Alvarez clarified.
Pescoli said, “Good. We just need to ask you a few questions.”
“My mom said I wasn’t to talk to anyone without a lawyer present.” He headed for the shade cast by the overhang of another huge porch. Its ceiling was extended to cover part of a patio where lounge chairs were arranged near side tables. Holding the ball between his knees, he snagged a T-shirt that had seen better days and yanked the worn cotton over his head.
“Do you need a lawyer?” Pescoli asked.
“’Course not.” He jabbed first one arm, then the other, through holes where once there had been sleeves.
Alvarez said, “We just need to clarify things.”
“I said, I need—I mean—I should have a lawyer here, okay? I heard that the girl you found is Destiny. And yeah, we were a couple. But we broke up weeks ago. I can’t help it if she was still hung up on me. Still hanging around.” He swiped his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt. “She thought we were gonna get married or some such shit. Couldn’t take no for an answer.” He stopped himself and smiled humorlessly. “Didn’t I just say I can’t talk to you?”
“We can wait,” Alvarez said.
“Wait?”
“For the attorney you don’t need,” Pescoli helped out.
“Shit, no . . . I mean . . . oh, hell.” He flopped into a lounge chair positioned near a glass-topped table, where a water bottle was perched by a cell phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. With a hungry glance at the Winstons, he uncapped the bottle and took a big gulp. “What do you want to know?” he asked, checking his phone just as it beeped, indicating a text had come in.
Alvarez was taking notes and didn’t bother hiding the recorder.
“You’re taping this?” he asked.
“Unless your attorney won’t allow it.”
“I don’t give a . . . I’ve got nothing to hide. So, go right ahead,” he added expansively.
“When was the last time you saw Destiny?”
“Uh, God, when? I don’t know. Sometime last week. No . . . Friday. A week ago Friday.” He squinted into the sun, sweat rolling into his eyes. “I remember because it was the weekend, y’know, the start of it
. She called and came by here.”
“You remember the time?” Alvarez asked.
A lift of a massive shoulder. “Maybe four . . . or no, had to be after five, cuz she was off work.” His gaze slid away from hers and Pescoli guessed he was lying or working on one, testing it in his mind to see if it would hold water. “Oh, no, wait,” he said, holding up a finger. “It was later than that. More like eight. After dinner.” He nodded, satisfied. “Yeah, that’s right. Getting dark.” A bounce of the basketball. “She worked that day—she did volunteer stuff at the hospital, in the kids’ ward, I think—and she went home and had dinner with her family and then she came over.”
“So she works at the hospital,” Pescoli interjected. “What about you?”
“What do I do?” Then, at the slight tilt of Pescoli’s face, he answered his own question. “I work construction. Well, in the summer, when I’m not in school. Mostly cleanup around the sites, y’know, but I’m learnin’ to frame. So I get off earlier than Des does—uh, than she did, I mean. At my job, we start early, real early, like sometimes before seven, y’know, if my boss can get away with it, like there are no noise restrictions or whatever. It’s a killer getting up that early, but then we knock off around four, sometimes four-thirty.”
“What did you do after work that Friday?” Pescoli figured this was where the real lying would start.
“Came home,” Donny said. He was frowning, as if trying to remember. “I, um, showered, then got pizza at Dino’s with a couple of friends.”
“Who?” Pescoli asked.
“Uh, there were four of us. Alex and Teej and Tophman. And me.”
“The O’Hara brothers and Bryant Tophman were with you?” Pescoli knew them all.
Donny was nodding, warming to his story. “That’s right.”
Alvarez asked, “How long did you hang out?”
“Until . . . I dunno, we played video games for a while. Here, and then . . . then they all left and Des called. Then she texted, I think, wanted to come over. So she did.”
“How long did Destiny stay?” Alvarez asked.
“Maybe half an hour? Forty-five minutes?” Again, he bounced the basketball. “Not long.”