by Lisa Jackson
“Wow.” Bianca stared at the scratches on her mother’s face. “I know Kywin’s mother is kind of angry all the time, he says so, but wow.” Bianca carefully touched her mother’s face. “That’s intense.”
“I suppose I’ll live. Without plastic surgery.”
“Are you going to put her in jail?”
Pescoli shook her head. “I probably should, but nah. Wilda’s got enough problems. Older kids who are borderline hoodlums, an ex who’s a regular in prison, and two more girls she’s trying to raise. Even though I wouldn’t call her Mother of the Year, Wilda’s trying and so, just because she’s a hothead with talon-like nails, I’m going to give her a pass. This time. But if she comes at me again, I won’t think twice about arresting her and putting her in jail.”
“Good.”
“But I’m okay.” That much was true as far as her face was concerned, but she did feel a rolling pang in her mid-section, an increased pressure that gave her pause. It had to be another Braxton Hicks contraction, right? Her due date was still a few weeks off. Ignoring it, she said, “Do you know if those three are tight? Wilda Wyze and Terri Tufts and Billie O’Hara?”
“You’d know better than me. I mean, they all were when we were growing up, weren’t they? The boys were in soccer and Little League and basketball, all kinds of sports, and on the same teams a lot of the time.”
“Terri made a comment about my pregnancy, and said something like, ‘It’s going around these days,’” Pescoli revealed.
“Probably because Marjory is,” Bianca said, “You know, Emmett and Preston’s stepmom? She’s not very far along. Doesn’t show or anything. But I think Terri is pissed, anyway, Emmett said so.”
“She didn’t seem pissed.”
“Then I don’t know, but it’s weird for everyone. Especially Emmett. He’s kind of freaked out about it.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to have a baby brother or sister and he’s like me. Almost grown.” She let her gaze drop to her mother’s abdomen. “I know you and Santana are all into it, and you should be, but for me and Jer, it’s kind of... well, upsetting in a way. We don’t like to think of you as . . .”
“Sexual?”
She made a face. “Yeah. And we know you and Santana. . . well, but did you have to go and get pregnant when you’re, like, almost ready for retirement?”
“Retirement. Geez, Bianca, I’m not in the grave yet.” Another pain was starting to swell inside her.
“Well, if it’s weird for me, it’s got to be super freaky for Emmett because he was going with Marjory when she hooked up with his dad.”
“What?” Pescoli said, trying not to wince as the pain increased. “Emmett dated Marjory? They were a couple?”
“Yeah, for like three or four months, and then she went for the dad or he went for her. He was still married to Terri at the time. They got divorced and then Richtor and Marjory got married and now she’s knocked up.”
Husband shooting blanks . . .
Oh, God.
No. No reason to follow that line of thinking. Terri Tufts was a bitter ex, and bitter exes said a lot of bitter, untrue things.
But she did ask, “Is Mr. Tufts excited about the baby?” The pressure decreased slightly and she took a breath. I cannot be going into labor. I. Can. Not.
“I don’t know.”
Pescoli’s cell phone chirped and she saw that Luke was on the line. Great. The last thing she needed was to deal with her ex, but ignoring Luke never seemed to work.
“Hi,” she answered shortly.
“Have you heard?” he demanded, and she could tell that he was driving, could hear the rush of traffic noise in the background. And he was mad as hell; she recognized his fury in the timbre of his voice.
“Have I heard what?”
“About the show?” He was practically shouting. “That Bianca’s out and that bimbo Lara Haas is in? That she claims she was attacked by a Big Foot? Jesus Christ, that has to be a setup!”
“A setup?”
“Are you playing dumb? Lara’s attack was obviously staged. Fake!” Then, he must’ve turned his head away from the phone as his voice was suddenly muted, though she heard him yell, “Way to go, asshole. Cut me off, will ya?” Then his voice was stronger again, when he returned. “I’m driving.”
“I figured.”
Back on topic, his voice clear again, he said, “I don’t believe for a second that she lost her phone up there at Reservoir Point when they were filming and then she didn’t notice it for a couple of hours or so, long enough for the crew to shut down? No way. I’m telling you, that girl has been angling for a starring role in Big Foot Territory: Montana! from the get-go. She was targeting Bianca, trying to figure out how to become the star, and she did it.” Again, his voice became muted, but she still heard, “Holy shit, asshole! Get off the road! That part belongs to Bianca! Hold on a sec. I’ve got to turn. Oh, shit!” She heard what sounded like the phone being dropped.
She wondered where he was heading in such a state, and a cold certainty settled in the pit of her stomach.
“That was Dad?” Bianca asked, twisting on the couch to look at her.
“Yeah, but I lost him. . . .” Her voice trailed off when headlights flashed through the trees as a vehicle came speeding down the lane. Lucky’s vintage Chevy was kicking up a trail of dust. “Oh, wait.” she said, clicking off the phone. “I think I just found him.”
Oh, joy.
* * *
“Gotcha!” Alvarez muttered, double-checking the lab results. No doubt about it. Kywin Bell was the father of Destiny Rose Montclaire’s unborn child. “You snakey, little lying bastard,” she said as she grabbed her keys and sidearm from her locker, then headed into the warm Montana night.
Destiny Rose’s self-appointed “protector,” and one of the people Destiny had texted on the night she died, had been lying to everyone. All that complaining about being harassed by the police, and whining about wanting a lawyer was to cover his own lying ass.
“Too late,” she said as she climbed into the warm interior of her Outback, rolled down the windows, backed out of her parking space, and drove out of the lot. The sun was hanging low in the sky, just about to settle over the western ridge of mountains, dusk quickly approaching. Squinting, she pulled her sunglasses from the console, slipped them over her eyes, and, at the traffic light, dialed Pescoli.
Her partner didn’t pick up, so she left a quick voice mail about arresting Kywin Bell, then kept driving. It was finally all coming together. Kywin had been seeing Destiny behind Donny Justison’s back, or maybe even to his knowledge as Donny and Destiny had broken up because of Veronica Palmero. Or for whatever reason. And oops, Destiny gets pregnant. Maybe she didn’t even know which of the boys she’d slept with could be the father. Not important. So she’d contacted them both, along with Lindsay Cronin, and then met Donny . . . at his house. “Nuh-uh,” she said to herself as she wound her way through the city streets to Franklin Bell’s house. Destiny had gone to the reservoir. So had she met Donny there? Or Kywin? Or both? Had Donny killed her in a fit of rage? Or had Kywin, “her protector” and lover, strangled the life out of the mother of his child?
Alvarez decided to force the truth out of Kywin first. Because he was the only person who had been contacted by both Lindsay Cronin and Destiny Rose Montclaire, the two dead girls. Alvarez had double-checked the phone records, and though Lindsay had conversations with a lot of her classmates, Kywin Bell’s number was one of the most frequent. Sometimes their conversations lasted half an hour. Yeah, he knew something, and Alvarez was betting he knew a lot.
“Time to find out,” she said, cutting the engine, making sure her sidearm was ready, and tossing off her shades. A feeling of satisfaction stole over her as she strode up the cracked cement walkway to the front porch, where the scraggly gray cat was curled into one of the metal lawn chairs. At the sight of her, it climbed to its feet, took the time to hiss in her direction, then hopped to the
worn floorboards and slunk into the near-dead shrubbery.
The door was open, only a screen door in place, and from the dark interior she heard muted conversation—no, more likely a television and maybe the sizzle of something being cooked, bacon frying, she guessed from the smell emanating through the rusted mesh. A bluish glow was visible down a short hallway, a TV at the back of the house.
She pounded on the frame of the screen door, then waited.
Nothing. But Franklin’s dusty Suburban, with all of its windows rolled down, was parked in the driveway. Unfortunately, Kywin’s jacked-up truck wasn’t in sight, which didn’t bode well.
She rapped again and this time heard a grunt, then a deep voice yelling, “I’m coming! Hell. What now?” Floorboards creaked as Franklin Bell, all six-four and three-hundred-plus pounds of him, lumbered from the back of the house to the front.
“For shit’s sake,” he said when he spied Alvarez. He was unshaven, his trucker’s cap squarely in place. “You’re Pescoli’s partner. What the hell do you want?” His gaze swept the porch and dry lawn as if searching for the other detective.
“To talk to Kywin?”
“Again? Didn’t you already do that? More’n once.”
“New information. I need to speak to him.”
“He ain’t here. Neither of my boys are.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know,” he retorted with satisfaction.
“When do you expect him back?”
He shrugged. “He’s a damned adult. Comes and goes as he pleases.”
“And he’s the father of Destiny Rose Montclaire’s unborn baby,” she said. “Lab tests confirm it, so I need to talk to him ASAP. If he’s involved in her death, he’s looking at double homicide.”
“You’re bullshitting me—”
“DNA doesn’t lie.” She cut him off. Franklin’s usually florid face drained of color. “Your boy’s up to his eyeballs in this.” She stepped closer to the rusted screens, showing him she wasn’t intimidated. “Kywin was in contact with Destiny on the night she died, and again with Lindsay Cronin a little while before she had her ‘accident’ up on Horsebrier Ridge. So, if you hear from him, let him know that I’m looking for him, and I need to talk to him ASAP.”
“Get the fuck off my property!” he growled as the smell of burning meat wafted through the house.
“Just give him the message.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Leave!” And with that, he grabbed hold of the edge of the open door and slammed it so hard that it rattled the screen as it shut. The cat, watching from the shadows of a near-dead juniper, glowered at Alvarez as she crossed the yard and slid behind the wheel of her Subaru. She didn’t start the car immediately. First, she called the station and put in a request for a BOLO, ordering all law enforcement officers to be on the lookout for Kywin Bell’s Dodge pickup. No way was Destiny Rose’s baby daddy and possible murderer going to slip through her fingers.
CHAPTER 29
“Regan!” Luke banged like crazy on the front door, and the dogs set to barking wildly.
“Hey! Hey! Slow down,” Pescoli ordered as she swung the door open and her ex-husband stormed in. In jeans, a gray T-shirt, and boots, he whirled on his ex-wife. His face was flushed, his usually combed hair mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration.
“You have to do something.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Pescoli.
“Me?”
“You’re the law around here, aren’t you?” He punched a fist into the air in frustration. “Son of a bitch!” he said, showing teeth, then strode rapidly toward the family room.
“Wait a damn minute. Why are you acting like a lunatic?” She was on his heels, the dogs barking a cacophony she could do without and trailing behind her. “Quiet,” she warned Cisco. “No!”
Luke threw open the refrigerator door, found a beer, and popped the top.
“That’s got to stop,” she warned him as the door swung closed, and he had the nerve to peer into one of the sacks from Wild Wills. “This is my house. That’s my beer, and you can’t come striding in here and making demands.”
“It’s for our kid!” he said, stepping away from the counter and taking a long swig.
“We have rules, you and I. Boundaries.” She pulled the can from his hand, took it, and poured the beer down the sink. “You need to respect them, Luke. We’ve been over this before. You can’t come over here, ranting and raving, practically bullying your way inside and then make yourself at home, drinking my damned beer and helping yourself to whatever. No. Get it? We’re over, you and I. Been over a long time now!” She crushed the can in her fist, fury coursing through her blood.
“Mom!” Bianca cried from the couch.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
She threw the empty can into the sink, then spun on him. “Something’s wrong with me? Are you kidding?” He’d been pissing her off for a long time, and she was sick to the back teeth of dealing with him. “You’re acting like a maniac.”
“I’m just really, really pissed off.”
“I get that.”
For the first time since roaring in, he actually looked at her . . . and let out a long, low whistle. “What the . . . what happened to you?” he asked, eyeing her cheek while actually taking a step back.
“Hazards of the job.”
“Wrestling bobcats? No wonder you’re in such a bad mood.”
“Leave it alone, and I’m not in any kind of mood whatsoever.”
His expression said she was kidding herself, but, slightly calmer, he got to the point. Finally. “You have to call Sphinx and make him honor his damned contract with our daughter.”
She made a choking sound.
Spying Bianca, who was starting to get up from the sectional, he waved her back into her seat. “Don’t get up. Your mom and I’ll handle this.”
“Handle what?” Bianca asked.
“I can’t believe this, honey, but it’s Sphinx! What kind of idiot is he, buying into that Lara’s scam? I mean it’s so damned obvious. I would think a big Hollywood hotshot like him would see through her little act.”
“What act?” Bianca asked warily from her corner of the sectional. She was staring at her parents as if they’d become lunatics, and Pescoli kicked herself for fighting with Luke in front of their daughter. Much as her ex drove her up the wall, he was, after all, Bianca’s father, and Regan, fool that she’d been at the time, had made the choice to wed him.
“Come on, honey. You see it, too. Right? I’m talking about Lara Haas’s supposed sighting of Big Foot. It’s all a big lie. A massive story she cooked up with that O’Hara kid, just so they could get bigger parts in the show.”
“Hold on, Luke.” Pescoli couldn’t let him drag Bianca into this, not until they knew the truth. “How do you know it’s a scam?”
“Because it’s fu—freaking obvious, that’s how. And there has to be a law against this sort of thing. You can’t go faking this stuff—making it up. It has to be real. I mean, duh, it’s called a reality show for God’s sake! For the love of Christ, we can’t let this happen!”
Pescoli felt another deep pain roll through her, stronger than before. She actually caught her breath.
Not now. This can’t be happening now. It’s too early for the baby. This is still false labor. It has to be.
“There. Look at that,” Luke said, when his eye caught the television screen. On the local news was footage of the most recent Big Foot “sighting” via Carl Jeffe’s drone. “This thing is just getting bigger and bigger, and Bianca is being edged out by that lying bitch.” The television screen changed, and he snagged up the remote, hitting a button to turn on the sound as he flopped onto the couch next to his daughter. On the screen, Lara Haas was being rolled down the sidewalk in a wheelchair, the front facade of Northern General rising behind her, both of her parents hurrying to keep up with the attendant.
“I’m just grateful to be alive,”
she was saying as a microphone was thrust into her face. The shot widened as the cameraman backed up, and Barclay Sphinx appeared to hand Lara the bouquet of flowers and balloons Pescoli had witnessed firsthand. The producer was smiling and saying how thankful he was that Lara hadn’t been hurt in the attack. Then, looking squarely into the camera’s eye, he told the audience that “this brave girl” was integral to the filming of Big Foot Territory: Montana! and her story would be told in a series of episodes.
“What a two-faced bastard! He has a contract with Bianca and he just nullifies it. Damn it all to hell!” Lucky was livid, his face flushed with color, his gaze fixed on the television, while out of the corner of her eye, through the window, Pescoli noticed headlights flashing through the trees. Santana! Oh, God, please.
From the spot he’d claimed on the sectional, Luke was still ranting. “We had a deal and now . . . what the fuck? The man’s a lying scumbag, I’m telling ya! A double-crossing son of a bitch.”
“Enough!” Pescoli reached over the back of the couch, yanked the remote from his hand, felt another pain start to increase, and clicked the television off. “Why didn’t you call Sphinx? Talk to him?”
“You don’t think I did? Of course I did. And I told him that Bianca was totally committed to the show and the series, that she would do anything, any damned thing to be a part of it.”
“Are you nuts? Isn’t that like making a deal with the devil?”
“For the love of God, you are so . . . so suspicious!”
“It’s my job.”
“Bullshit!” he roared, jabbing an accusatory finger at his ex-wife. “This is her shot, Regan! Her chance of a lifetime. Don’t you get it? I’m just supporting her any way possible and you should, too. I told Sphinx that we all were behind her and the project a hundred percent, that we’d all back her.”
“Not me,” Pescoli said.
“Why not, Mom?” Bianca twisted on the couch to take in the fight, and she glared at her mother.
“It’s not you, honey. I’ll always have your back, you know that. But I don’t like this whole shaky ‘reality’ show, and I use the term loosely, so for once I agree with your father here: I don’t trust Barclay Sphinx. The difference is that I’m not willing to jump in to play ball with him. And I certainly don’t like it that you’re caught in the middle.”