by Lisa Jackson
Rounder than her husband, with a cap of graying curls, apple cheeks and a perpetual smile, wearing a simple print dress, Janie watched her husband preach in obvious adoration, as if she were a wallflower of a school girl and the most popular boy in school—maybe the quarterback of the football team—had just asked her to dance. Janie Tophman still appeared lost in puppy love with her husband of thirty-odd years.
The reverend spoke calmly, in a soothing voice. He was beloved by his congregation, a pillar of the community, and was always front and center at many charitable events. He’d been the preacher at First Methodist for over fifteen years, raised his kids here, and never been relocated by the church, which was a bit unusual, but maybe reflected his deep ties to the community.
The Tophmans were both vocal about their boy being a “good son, a good Christian boy,” nearly echoing the very words that Mary-Beth Delaney had used to describe her daughter, Simone: “a good girl.”
Maybe, Pescoli thought, staring at the sullen kid. Or, maybe not. Rather than pray when his father suggested they all bow their heads in prayer, Bryant Tophman, wide-eyed, studied the toes of his black cowboy boots.
“Our children have been taught the way of the Lord,” Janie Tophman had said to Pescoli after the interview at the station, when they’d been walking out past Joelle Fisher’s desk. Pescoli remembered the conversation clearly, even though she’d been trying to avoid Joelle, who was still going on and on about a baby shower. “Our older children have proved that to be true,” Janie said as she brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the bodice of her dress.
“Now, Mother, there’s no reason to brag,” the reverend had responded with a soft, amused chuckle.
“I’m just saying,” Janie had gone on as they walked through the doors. “Both Barbara Jane and Boyd are upstanding members of their community. Married. Children. Boyd followed in his father’s footsteps into the ministry and has his own congregation down in Boise. Barbara is a stay-at-home mom who homeschools.” Janie had beamed with pride, her chest swelling. The older children were at least a dozen years ahead of Bryant, so Pescoli thought he might have been an “oops,” but she’d never say as much, especially considering her current condition.
Even so, she’d been left with the feeling that Bryant was very efficiently pulling the wool over his parents’ adoring eyes.
“See anything?” Alvarez asked in a whisper as she crossed the patchy parking lot and joined Pescoli.
“The usual. Same kids that were at Reservoir Point to start with. It’s like déjà vu all over again,” she said quietly, “and then there’s the production crew. Barclay Sphinx’s crowd.” She hitched her chin to a spot on another rise, where cameras were rolling and Fiona Carpenter was buzzing around, trying to look somber, but clearly more interested in camera angles and lighting. Lucky was planted near her, standing with his hands together, never letting any member of the crew out of his sight for long. Michelle, for once, wasn’t at his side.
“Not the press?”
“They’re here.” Pescoli motioned toward a guy with a shoulder cam, and what appeared to be a female reporter standing closer to the church, near a laurel hedge running alongside the building. Manny Douglas was in the congregation, front and center, listening raptly to the reverend’s speech and probably recording every word. And, as expected, Sheriff Cooper Blackwater was standing near the edge of the mourners, his hawkish features tight, lips compressed, gaze sliding over each person in the congregation.
“How were things in Missoula?”
“Veronica Palermo thinks Donny Justison is a god. If he needs an alibi, she’s going to provide it.”
“Great,” Pescoli muttered sardonically.
“Yeah.”
As the sermon wore on, Pescoli caught sight of Michelle hurrying from the street, where she’d obviously just parked her car. She was in heels and a short dress, her gaze searching the throng. She spied Luke and waved, then quickly started weaving through the packed mourners toward him.
“We’ve got ourselves a three-ring circus under the guise of being a vigil for Destiny Rose,” Pescoli said dryly.
For the better part of a week, Pescoli had been doing a slow, steady burn. It had started the night she’d returned home and Bianca had admitted that she had agreed, through Lucky’s urging, and with his parental permission, to do the damned reality show. Later tonight, they’d begin filming while the rest of the town, under Mayor Justison’s guidance, was preparing for Big Foot Daze, which had come to be through a quickly convened meeting of the city council where Sphinx had spoken and agreed to host the celebration over Labor Day. That would be pushing things, as it was already August, but the mayor had been thrilled and declared, through an article in the Mountain Reporter, that the event would help the economy, create jobs, and put Grizzly Falls on the map.
For what? Pescoli thought. Big Foot Capital of Montana? Already, she was seeing signs that it was happening. A few statues of the creature that had been tucked away collecting dust were now front and center in storefronts.
The hype was already beginning.
And Pescoli hated it.
Despite her ex-husband’s pleas and Barclay Sphinx’s interest in her “story line” and “character development,” Pescoli had avoided meeting with the producer. She’d stepped away from Bianca being involved only because her daughter had been adamant, and Lucky had supported her a hundred and fifty percent. Pescoli had even bitten her tongue when she’d wondered what was in it for Lucky. She wanted no part of it for herself, though. Let Bianca deal with her father on this one.
Fortunately, Sphinx had been out of town for a few days, so all Pescoli had to do to ignore him was refuse his calls and not return them. Easy deal. She was too damned busy. Not only did she hear the clock ticking toward her ever looming delivery date, but as the days passed, she felt frustrated and stymied in the homicide investigation.
Not that she wanted Bianca involved at all.
“Maybe you’ve gotta let go a little, just let this happen,” Santana had told her a few days earlier. “Roll with it.”
They’d been standing in the kitchen, he with a beer, she with a damned sparkling water, as they’d tried to find something from the refrigerator to put together for dinner. The dogs, hopeful a crumb could fall their way, had been milling at their feet.
“Roll with it?” Pescoli had repeated as she’d pulled out a third of an extra-large pizza left over from the night before. “That’s your suggestion?” She dropped the pizza, still in its oversized cardboard box and smelling of garlic, onions, and cheese, onto the counter.
“I don’t see how you can fight it.”
“Pretty sure I can.”
“But is it worth it? You’ve got a big case to work out and, like it or not, the baby’s coming.” He touched her on the belly and she slapped his hand away. She was spoiling for a fight, irritated to the back teeth at his attitude about Bianca, Big Foot, and especially her ex.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her how far she’d stepped over the line.
“Sorry,” she said shortly, shutting the refrigerator door. “I don’t mean to be such a bitch, but damn it, all this Big Foot reality show crap is bugging the hell out of me. The production crew is here, there’s talk of ‘Big Foot Daze,’ and the town’s buzzing like an angry wasp. Tourists rolling in. Gawkers. People drawn to the spectacle. And the first scene that they’re shooting for Sphinx’s reality series? They’re filming right after the candlelight vigil Friday night! Can you believe that? It’s all crazy-making, that’s what it is, but yeah, as you pointed out, I’ve got a murder investigation to handle.”
His gaze dropped pointedly to her stomach.
“I know, the baby. I’m sorry.” She picked up his hand, drew it to her, and held it close over her protruding belly. “I can’t wait for him to get here and to be done with this ‘high risk’ pregnancy, all because I’m pushing forty.” That pissed her off, too. Along with a myriad of other things.
“Or her? Whatever he/she is.” Pescoli leaned into him. “It’s just that the timing isn’t great.”
“When is it ever?”
He pulled her in close and she closed her eyes and drank in the smell of him. Even when she was at her worst, he managed to still love her. It was humbling, and she vowed to stop being such a bitch.
“It’ll be over soon.”
No, no, it wouldn’t. Yeah, she wouldn’t be pregnant any longer, but the journey of raising a child would just be beginning. Santana didn’t really understand it, not deep in his gut like she did in hers. He’d never had a child before and had come into her life when her kids were in high school. But he’d learn.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he kissed her forehead and said, “It’ll be fun. An adventure.”
She’d managed to choke out a laugh, and he’d reached around her, flipped open the box, and found a piece of cold pepperoni.
“I know. ’Course I know, Santana. I’m only afraid he . . . or she . . . will be as bad-ass as you are and then what the hell are we gonna do?”
She still didn’t know.
Now, as Michelle hurried to Lucky’s side, standing on her tiptoes and giving him a light kiss on the cheek, Pescoli turned her attention back to the rest of the throng, those mourners who had come to listen to Tophman go on and on. She noticed Lara Haas, edging through the crowd to talk to Emmett Tufts and his brother, Preston. Marjory, slipping away from her husband’s protective grip for a second, said a word or two to Lara and the Tufts brothers, her stepsons.
Preston, a few years older than Emmett, spoke to both girls while Emmett, who had two or three inches and twenty or thirty pounds on his older brother, kept looking over his shoulder at his father, who came up, caught his wife’s hand, and gave it a tight squeeze.
A little tension there.
She realized both Preston and Emmett kept sneaking glances at Marjory, as well as Terri and Billie. The whole scene hit Pescoli the wrong way—like they were all guilty of some collusion—but she told herself she was being overly suspicious. Not everyone in this crowd was involved in murder or abduction.
Catching movement in the parking lot, she saw Fred Nesmith pull up in a Chevy Silverado. Edie, the authoritarian cashier at the meeting, and two men with flowing gray beards climbed out of the king cab, their boots crunching on the gravel as they alighted. Nesmith reached into his pocket. The pickup’s headlights blinked and it gave a sharp beep as it locked.
Within seconds, a black Lexus rolled into the lot, Barclay Sphinx at the wheel, Jeffe in the passenger seat. They parked and caught up to the others; then the entire entourage of members from the club joined the congregation.
Pescoli noticed that Barclay moved through the crowd to settle in next to the Montclaires. Destiny’s father nodded to the producer while the minister, if he noticed any commotion, didn’t so much as stumble over a word. In his smooth tone, Reverend Tophman continued to preach to the people who’d come to pay their respects.
There appeared to be some kind of silent conversation going on between Glenn Montclaire and Barclay Sphinx. She raised an eyebrow at Alvarez, who had caught the producer’s arrival as well.
“He’s already set up a reward, ten grand for help in finding and convicting Destiny’s killer,” Alvarez whispered. “I just got a text from Blackwater. It happened late this afternoon. Sphinx called the Montclaires, then set it up through the mayor, who gave the word to Blackwater. He wasn’t happy that Sphinx hadn’t come to him directly.”
Pescoli was irked, as well. The investigation had barely gotten going, and though she encouraged the public’s help, the mention of a reward always brought out the crazies and the desperate, all of which the sheriff’s office would have to wade through.
“Sphinx wanted to hold a press conference about it,” Alvarez added.
“I bet.”
“The sheriff is balking.”
“Really?” Pescoli found that hard to believe.
“He thinks we should handle any press conference.”
“For once, I agree.”
“The mayor doesn’t see it that way.”
Pescoli hazarded a glance at Carolina Justison, who was sliding through the crowd, aiming for a position near Sphinx.
And all the while, Reverend Tophman kept talking about Destiny Rose Montclaire going home to God.
“Let us pray,” he intoned again, smiling beatifically. Pescoli bowed her head, but she watched the group, faces lit by the unsteady light of candles or images of candles via cell phone apps, all devoutly praying or wanting to appear that way.
CHAPTER 23
“Detective!”
Regan was walking to her vehicle after the service when she heard Barclay Sphinx’s voice calling for her. Every muscle in her back tightened and she reluctantly turned to see him jogging toward her. She just didn’t trust the guy and had trouble keeping her expression neutral. Several people were also hurrying after him—Carlton Jeffe, Ivor Hicks, and Luke were all making their way through knots of people as they tried to catch up with the producer. Michelle, incredibly agile in her four-inch heels, managed to stay with them. The good news was that Bianca wasn’t part of the entourage.
“Be a part of my show, Detective Pescoli,” Barclay said, offering up an engaging grin in the thin illumination from a street lamp. “Change your mind. Join us.”
“We’ve already been through this.”
“Your daughter has agreed to be the star. And you’re aware filming starts tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “The on-site crew is already setting up at Reservoir Point. The rest of us are heading up there now. All you have to do is come.”
“Thank you, no. I’m out.” She saw that he was about to launch into more arguments and staved them off with, “I don’t believe Big Foot exists, and I don’t like how you’re exploiting this town and Destiny Montclaire’s death, all for ratings. And now another girl is missing. So, no.”
“Exploiting? Oh. No. No. We’re not exploiting anyone. What girl’s missing?”
“Lindsay Cronin.”
Her name didn’t seem to register with him as he placed a splayed hand over his chest. “I’m trying to help the investigation.”
“And how’s that?”
“With all the publicity we’re generating. Just take the trailer after the show . . .”
Pescoli seethed. Any publicity for the case, even if it proved beneficial, was created to win over mass appeal, create a buzz and add up to helping ratings for his new show. The underlying reason for Sphinx’s involvement was that dead, murdered girls made for interesting TV. It was all about money.
“This could help Destiny’s family and—” He was going on, but Pescoli cut him off.
“The trailer and everything else you do can be done without my input. Ask the sheriff.”
“I have. Sheriff Blackwater’s agreed to be a part of it.”
“Oh.” Of course. Just when she was beginning to have a smidgen of faith in the sheriff, his true colors came to light.
“But he’s not Bianca’s mother,” Sphinx pointed out. “He doesn’t have that emotional connection with her, so it’s a whole different thing. Touches a different emotion for the viewer.” Again, he flashed his engaging grin, as if Barclay Sphinx really believed he could somehow charm her into being a part of his reality show.
“Find a stand-in,” she suggested.
“Michelle has agreed to do the part,” he said, watching her reaction.
Pescoli’s heart dropped. Michelle? She wanted to argue about Michelle not being old enough, or smart enough or anything enough to be Bianca’s biological mother, but held it back with an effort. “Good,” she said tightly. “Then you’re set. If you’ll excuse me.”
She climbed into her Jeep and engaged the engine, hitting the gas and reversing before driving out of the lot. As she paused to check the street, she glanced in her rearview mirror and spied Sphinx looking dumbfounded while Michelle, who had caug
ht up with him, was positively radiant.
What was it she’d told Bianca? That this part in Big Foot Territory: Montana! was just the beginning? That Bianca was on her way to being a star? Well, now, it seemed it was Michelle’s big break, too.
“Have at it,” she said aloud.
She was about to pull away when she saw two boys, one of the Bell brothers—Kywin, she thought—move next to Bryant Tophman, who had escaped from his mother and father as they spoke with other mourners. The two men—because they sure didn’t look like teens, both big and muscular—slapped hands and then turned from each other, Tophman stuffing something furtively into the front pocket of his jeans while Bell disappeared through the dispersing crowd.
In her career as a cop, she’d seen more than her share of drug deals go down, from street hoodlums and prostitutes to white-collar workers and doctors, or kids and a friend’s parent or older sibling, so she recognized the quick, secretive action, but it was more than a little bold right here in a damned candlelight vigil with parents, friends, and the cops around. What kind of idiots were they?
Kids, she told herself. With the bodies of men and the brains of children. Boys who think they’re invincible and way smarter than they are.
So, if those dunderheads were hiding something about Destiny Montclaire’s death or Lindsay Cronin’s disappearance, they were bound to screw up, and she was going to catch them.
She only hoped it happened before someone else died.
* * *
The forest around Reservoir Point was nearly dark.
Eerie.
A sliver of moon rising through the wispy clouds.
It was much like the night Bianca had been running for her life, certain a monster was chasing her down the mountain, bearing down on her, its hot, horrid breath at her back. She could remember the feelings. The terror. Calling up those raw emotions for this, her big scene recreating the moment “Big Foot” chased her into the canyon, was easy.