by Lisa Jackson
“That’s right.”
“Is she okay?” he asked as the garage door slowly opened.
“We don’t know. We can’t find her.”
A pause, the silence cut by the grinding of the garage door and her Jeep’s idling engine.
“We thought you might have an idea of where she was going, or where she’d been.” The truth of the matter was that the accident reconstruction team had spent hours on the ridge where Jillian’s car had spun out. They could tell from which direction the car had careened down the hill, but because of the spin, couldn’t discern which direction she’d been traveling. They had the clue of an empty coffee cup from the Chocolate Moose Café in Spruce Creek, and a waitress remembered Jillian, as she’d been one of the few customers taking anything “to go” that day. So, it seemed that she had been traveling toward Missoula rather than away from the town.
“You know, we were divorced two years ago and I’m remarried now. I don’t keep in contact with Jill or her family.”
“We thought she might be coming to see you.”
“Why?”
“That’s what we wanted to know.”
“Look, I have no idea where she was going or why. As I said, I haven’t had any contact with her since the divorce was finalized. Now, if there’s nothing further, I have a client waiting in my office.”
“Just let us know if you think of anything.”
“There’s nothing to think about, Detective.” He hung up and Regan was left with a bad feeling. She pulled into the garage, hit the remote so the door would crank down, then climbed out of the car and made her way into her house, where Cisco greeted her with wild tail wagging, excited yips and tight little circles of enthusiasm. She had only half an hour, then she had to be back at the department for a Friday afternoon meeting before she worked late into the night. Overtime. This year it would pay for Christmas.
The dog was still going out of what little he had for a mind.
“Cisco! Shut up!” Bianca yelled from her bedroom. The TV was blaring in the living room, tuned into some reality show about twenty-somethings being overly dramatic about the minutiae of their lives, all while dressed in nearly nothing. Lots of tanned, toned flesh, a few piercings visible, numerous tattoos, all peppered with tears, bad language and raw, teen-type angst and emotion.
“Real life, my ass.” Pescoli picked up the remote, downed the volume and turned to the local news.
Once the decibel level was in the normal hearing range again, Pescoli stuck her head into her daughter’s room. Painted a blinding pink when Bianca was ten, it was now covered in posters of the latest teen “hotties” from boy bands and movie stardom. Bianca was flopped over her unmade bed, cell phone glued to her ear.
“Where’s your brother?” Regan asked.
Bianca’s expression got all pissy. She mouthed, “I’m on the phone.”
“Big deal. Hang up. You can call whoever it is back.”
“What? Just a minute. My mom came in. No, it’s okay—”
“Hang up, Bianca. Your dad will be here in twenty minutes.”
Sending her mother a look meant to melt steel, Bianca said, “Look, I’ll call ya back. I gotta go…. What?…Yeah, that’s right. The warden needs me.” She hung up and sent her mother a triumphant smirk.
“The ‘warden’ wants to know that you’ve got all your stuff packed up for the weekend and where your brother is.”
“I’m ready to go.”
“Got your homework?”
“I don’t have to do homework at Lucky’s,” she said, invoking the name of her father, whom she hadn’t called “Daddy” since the divorce. “Michelle says—”
Pescoli snatched the cell phone out of her daughter’s hand.
“Hey!” Bianca cried as Pescoli snapped the phone closed.
“I don’t care what Michelle says, or really what ‘Lucky’ says either. You take your homework and you get it done, or you and ‘the warden,’ we’re going to have serious issues.”
“We already do!” Bianca declared.
“Yeah, I know. So where’s your brother?”
“Don’t know.”
“Sure you do. You got home somehow and I’m betting you didn’t take the bus.”
“Chris brought me.”
“Your boyfriend brought you home? Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t allowed in the house when I wasn’t here?”
“He dropped me off. Well, yeah, he came in and I gave him a jar of Jeremy’s Gatorade, so sue me, call the sport drink cops!”
“I am the cops,” Pescoli reminded her.
“He gave me an effin’ ride home! You should be glad. Jeremy ditched me.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know and I don’t really care. He said something about Lucky not being his real dad and him not having to go.” She glared at her mother. “Give me back my phone.”
“As soon as you’re packed, and that includes your homework.” Pescoli held tight to the cell. Fuming, she returned to the kitchen, let Cisco outside to do his business and checked his water. “Did you feed the dog?” she called over her shoulder and was met with seething, muted silence emanating from Bianca’s room. Obviously she was being given the silent treatment. Well, good. It was way better than hearing the backtalk. As the terrier pawed at the door to be let in, Pescoli dialed her son’s cell number, then opened the door. A blast of cold air followed the dog back inside.
Jeremy didn’t pick up. But then he never did. Why should now be different from every other day? The kid was being a jerk. And whose fault is that, huh? Who let him get away with murder as a kid because of guilt over Joe’s death? “Damn it all,” she muttered, not leaving a message on voice mail and, instead, defaulting to texting, which she hated, but at least now her kid would read the message.
Get your butt home. Now. xoxo Mom
“That should do it, huh?” she said to the dog, and then, hearing Bianca making noises as if she were putting together an overnight bag, Pescoli poured herself a Diet Coke, added ice and sat down on the couch. Cisco, done with his meager meal of dried food, hopped onto the lumpy cushion beside her and waited as she petted his scruffy head. “Feeling ignored?” she asked the dog. “Join the club.”
He hopped onto her lap, put his paws on her chest and licked her face.
“Okay, okay, enough already. I may be single, but I’m not this desperate.”
“Oh, sick,” Bianca said, walking out of her bedroom and carrying an overstuffed backpack.
“Grow a sense of humor,” Pescoli suggested, and finally Bianca managed a smile.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Now, can I have—”
Pescoli tossed her daughter the precious cell phone. “You do have your homework with you?”
“Yeah.” For once Bianca didn’t roll her eyes or go into her irritating pouty, put-upon act. She even bent over and petted Cisco on his head. “So what’re you doing this weekend?”
“There’s a maniac killer on the loose.”
“Oh, work?”
“Give the girl a gold star.” Regan took a long swallow from her glass, then watched as the ice cubes clicked and danced in the dark liquid.
“Don’t you get tired of it?”
“Mmm. Beats sitting at a desk nine to five. Or waiting tables. Did both of those before.”
Bianca wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. You see some pretty gross stuff.”
“Gross and totally demoralizing. Makes you wonder what’s wrong with the entire human race.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Someone has to.”
“But why you?”
“Because I’m good at my job.” And the truth of the matter was, she loved it. Lived for it. She, in her own way, was as much a workaholic as Alvarez. They just went at it from different angles. She smiled at her daughter and gave her a hug. “I try not to let it get me down.” She glanced at the muted television and saw an image of Ivor Hicks being interviewed on the screen. “Oh no.”
/> “What?”
“Someone let the loonies out.” Hearing the sound of a large truck’s engine, Regan braced herself for the inevitable meeting with Lucky. Today, after dealing with tight-assed Mason Rivers, she wasn’t in the mood to face her own ex. “Dad’s here,” she said, and Bianca visibly brightened. God, the kid loved her father. Which was probably for the best, but it still irritated Pescoli a bit.
Bianca threw her a look. “Are you going to tell him about Jeremy, or should I?”
“I’ll handle it.”
Jillian had heard MacGregor’s keys jangling in his jacket pocket. All she had to do was fish them out when he was sleeping, right? But she kept her thoughts to herself and asked instead, “Do you live here year-round?”
“Sometimes.”
“Doing what?”
He hesitated just a second and looked over her shoulder. “Fishing, hunting, white-water guide in the summer.”
“And in the winter?”
“Mostly get ready for the summer. Sometimes someone wants to go snowshoeing or cross-country skiing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not recently, though. Not with the storms.”
Her eyes narrowed. It sounded like BS to her. And this good-ole-country-boy act didn’t wash either. “All winter long, you stay inside here, by yourself.”
“I’ve got Harley.”
At the mention of his name, the dog, with eyes still closed, thumped his tail against the rug.
“What about family? Wife? Kids?”
There was just a second’s hesitation, a slight tightening of his lips, before he shook his head. “Just Harley. Short for Harlequin.” He bent down and scratched the dog behind his ears. “And no, I didn’t name him. Someone else did the honors.”
“Who?”
“Harley came with the place. I bought it from a guy a couple of years ago. His bitch had a litter of pups. One died, he gave the other four away and this one stayed on with me.” He winked at the dog, who stretched and let out a contented sigh. “So far, it’s worked out.”
“You never get lonely?”
One side of his mouth lifted. “Not enough to make me change my ways.”
“You got family?”
“Not much.”
“How much?” she asked, wondering about him.
“Two half-sisters. Younger.”
“Your folks are dead?”
Again the slight hesitation, as if he were checking his lies, making sure he didn’t slip up. “I haven’t seen my mother in three years. Far as I know, she and husband number five…or is it six…I can’t remember, don’t care to, but the last I heard she was living outside of Phoenix somewhere.”
“You don’t see her.”
“Nope. And it suits us both fine. My old man took off before I was born. Never married my mother. I figure that’s why she kept trying.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?”
“At least,” she said, and he finally leaned back in his chair, eyeing her over the rim of a cup that had to be holding cold coffee.
“Okay, I met him once. When I was about eighteen. It didn’t go well.”
She shifted in the chair and pain ricocheted up her leg, causing her to suck in her breath.
“I told you to lie down,” he said, placing his cup on the hearth and climbing to his feet. “If you don’t want to go back into the bedroom, you can lie here on the couch, or on the recliner, where you can elevate your feet.”
“Oh. Well.”
He walked over to her chair, picked the knife off the small table and carried it to a small bureau positioned near the tattered old La-Z-Boy. “You wouldn’t want to forget this,” he said. He set the boning knife in reach of the chair.
“I don’t need it.”
“Of course you do. You don’t know me. You don’t trust me and you’re stuck here. Now, come on.” He crossed the room again and offered her the crutch. “You rest and I’ll make us dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Stew and chili out of cans.” His lips twisted upward. “Gourmet chili,” he clarified, then helped her to her feet and walked her to the recliner. “Trust me. You’ll love it.”
That was the trouble. She couldn’t let herself trust him. Not for a minute.
Chapter Twelve
Through the icy window, Regan saw Lucky’s pickup roll up the lane to idle near the front walk.
And, of course, he wasn’t alone in the black Dodge that was jacked up higher than normal.
In the passenger seat, appearing very cool and lofty in what looked to be designer sunglasses, sat his new wife, the oft-quoted Michelle.
Pescoli’s guts tightened just a fraction. Though she told herself and the outside world that she was “way over” her ex, she still felt a pinch of tension every time she had to deal with him. And wifey.
Regan made a face. She and Michelle were worlds apart. For the most part, Michelle was pleasant enough, just not the sharpest tool in the shed, the kind of woman who expected a man to do everything for her, the type Regan didn’t like and really didn’t trust.
But there it was. Like it or not, Michelle, via Lucky and their children, was a part of her life.
Which was a real pisser.
She set her soft drink down, crossed the small living room to the front door and opened it just as Lucky began stomping snow off his boots on the minuscule area some builder had decided was an adequate front porch.
“Everybody ready?” Lucky asked, looking at her through the glass panels of the storm door with his Pescoli eyes. Deep set and hazel, almost blue, they were sexy as hell. As was Lucky. Tall and trim, with thick nearly blond hair and a bad-boy attitude that drove women wild, Luke Pescoli was one good-looking man. And a pain in the backside.
“Jeremy’s not here. I don’t know what his deal is.”
“I told you,” Bianca said, her softer side disappearing in her father’s presence. “He’s not coming.”
“Any reason why not?”
“He said you’re not his real dad.”
“Like this is news,” Lucky said. He sent his ex-wife a can-you-believe-this look. “Somethin’ happen?”
Regan shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, but who knows? He’s seventeen, which he tells me all the time. He believes he’s grown up and can do his own thing.”
“He’s deluded,” Bianca chimed in from her bedroom.
Lucky, frowning beneath the brim of his black felt hat, asked, “You want me to set him straight?”
“Nah. I’ll take care of it,” Regan assured him. “I’ll call you and let you know what he says.”
He nodded as Bianca pushed her way through the door and headed to the king-cab truck. Michelle, all bright and cheery, was waving frantically, her beauty-pageant smile pinned to her face.
“How’s the serial killer case goin’?” Lucky asked.
“It’s going,” she hedged. Lucky knew she couldn’t talk about it.
“Well, don’t let it get to you. I know how these things do. It’s not personal.”
“Isn’t it? A psycho killing women in my backyard?” She watched her daughter climb into the truck. “Sorry, Lucky, I take it personally. It’s very personal.”
He pulled a face. “Some things don’t change.”
“No. And they shouldn’t!”
“Okay, okay. I give up, Officer!” He held up his hands and backed up a step in mock surrender and she almost laughed. Almost. “Didn’t mean to step on a nerve,” he said, squaring his hat on his head. “Let me know what’s up with Jeremy.”
“I will. And make sure Bianca does her homework. She’s drowning in Algebra II and Global Studies. I even think she’s struggling in English, which is easy for her.”
“Really?” Lucky said. “We’ll take care of it. Michelle was an A student.”
A four-point from the woman who didn’t believe in homework? Regan doubted it, but she kept that little insight to herself. “Good. She can tutor Bianca,” Rega
n said, though her jaw was tight.
Somehow she managed to nod, smile and sketch out a wave that was meant to include her daughter, her ex-husband and his new wife. Closing the door, she felt an empty sensation that bothered her. She knew it was silly, but watching Bianca get swallowed into Lucky’s new family took a toll on her. The fact that Bianca always threw what a good time she had at her father’s place in Regan’s face was also a major pain.
One she had to live with.
She glanced at the TV and was relieved to see that Ivor Hicks was no longer on the screen. God, couldn’t anyone shut that fruitcake up? He would put the public into a panic, get the press all stirred up and probably play into the killer’s hands. No doubt the pervert who got off on freezing women to death was getting off on all the publicity and attention.
Her good mood totally shattered, she clicked off the televison and headed downstairs. She tried Jeremy’s cell one more time, listening as the connection went directly to voice mail while she tossed in a load of laundry. As the washer filled, she poked her head into Jeremy’s room, the “den of iniquity,” and wondered where her son was. Her gaze landed on a picture of Joe, tucked between a mess of CDs and video games on the bookcase. Joe Strand, her high school sweetheart, the man she’d given her virginity to, the man she’d married and the man, when things had gotten rocky, she’d cheated on. Yes, they’d been separated at the time, and yes, he, too, had carried on an affair, but she’d broken her marriage vows pretty damned willingly, almost as a way to get back at him.
That had been a long time ago. Hell, she hadn’t even been out of college and then she’d gotten pregnant. With Joe’s son. Jeremy.
Joe had questioned the kid’s paternity, of course, until Jeremy had been born and was the spitting image of her estranged husband. It had taken a few months before they’d decided to give the marriage another chance.
And then Joe had the nerve to die.
To be killed in the line of duty and leave her a widow with a small child.
The worst part of it was that Joe hadn’t ever given up the woman who had wrecked their marriage in the first place. He’d lied and said the affair was over, but he had never completely broken it off with a woman who had been one of Regan’s high school friends.