The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  “Then let’s pay him a visit.”

  “You have to have a key. It’s electronic—”

  “I know. We just have to wait a few minutes, I’m guessing.”

  And he was right. They bought coffee from a nearby shop and waited. Within minutes the gate opened to allow a long Cadillac to exit. Mason helped her into the garage before the iron bars clanged shut. The door to the elevator was never locked, and once inside Jillian pressed the button for the fourth level, just as she had years ago when she’d been with Mason.

  The elevator car climbed slowly, without any stops, its doors parting on the fourth floor, where couches, lamps and potted plants were arranged in alcoves around the windows. Using MacGregor as her crutch, she walked unevenly down the carpeted hallway to the tiny indentation that served as the entry to the private unit.

  Jillian felt strange and out of place, as if she were trespassing, though for a few years she’d walked into this very unit laden with groceries or dry cleaning or a bottle of wine.

  How odd it all was now.

  “So it’s now or never.”

  “Let’s go with now,” she said, and rang the bell.

  For a second she heard nothing. No sounds stirring within. She almost thought no one was home. But she gave it another try, pushing on the button and hearing the familiar dulcet tones of the electronic chimes.

  “Coming!” Mason’s voice preceded him.

  Jillian braced herself as the door opened and she found herself standing face-to-face with her ex.

  “Jillian!” he said, surprised. “Oh my God, what’re you doing here? I wondered how you were. I was going to call, but I thought you might need time to heal.” Then he stopped gushing as his eyes landed on MacGregor. “What’s…what’s this all about?” In a heartbeat he’d changed from the overly and sickeningly concerned ex-husband to the quiet, suspicious attorney.

  “Mason? Who’s here?” a female voice asked, and Sherice appeared, wearing a red bikini and flimsy, see-through cover-up. A few days before Christmas, when the temperature was somewhere around minus-four. “Oh.” Sherice’s avid, pretty face clouded for a second as she recognized Jillian, then was masked with a perfectly set smile, the kind you see on kids in beauty pageants as they parade in all those sequined costumes.

  “Hi, Sherice,” Jillian said, then, stepping closer to MacGregor, she said to Mason, “this is Zane MacGregor. He’s the man who saved my life when some psycho tried to kill me.”

  “But you’re okay?” Mason asked.

  “Kind of.” She stared hard at the man to whom she was once married. “We think the guy who did it might be from Spokane, and so, since you’re here, I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  “Because?” he asked, and Sherice, standing next to him, visibly paled.

  “Because you’re here a lot.”

  “And you think—what? That I…? That I had something to do with it?” He held up both hands. “That’s crazy, Jillian. I have no reason to harm you. I mean, you couldn’t possibly think that I…Oh, for the love of God.”

  “Not you, Mason, but maybe someone you know.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you thought you’d accomplish by coming here, but this is nuts.”

  “Bear with us,” MacGregor said as his cell phone rang and he saw the number. “Just a sec.” He answered. “Yeah?”

  “Jillian,” Mason said, his voice lower. “What is this?”

  “I just need your help,” she admitted, letting down her guard.

  Behind Mason, Sherice rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that crazy wacko after you?” she asked, then turned to her husband. “We don’t want any of that kind of trouble. That guy, that Star-Crossed Killer, I’ve been reading about him, and he’s really a nutcase. Look, I’m sorry you were left in the woods and all, but we…Mason, he can’t help you.”

  “What is it you want?” Mason asked, not happily, but at least not stiffly either.

  MacGregor said, “Yeah, great…I got it. I’ll call you back.” He hung up and Jillian knew he’d been talking to Chilcoate. No one else had the number of MacGregor’s cell. She glanced up at him and he nodded. “We’re certain the information that was sent to Jillian, photos that lured her here, were from Spokane, so what I want to do, Rivers, is hire you for my lawyer, mine and Jillian’s, for the next hour or so. That way everything we say will be kept under client-lawyer privilege.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sherice interrupted. “You can’t.”

  But Mason nodded. “All right. Sherice, why don’t you go down to the hot tub and wait for me…or put some clothes on and go shopping downstairs at that shoe store you like so much.”

  “Are you kidding? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “It’s business,” he said, meeting Jillian’s eyes.

  “No way. I’m not putting up with your ex-wife pulling your strings and—”

  “Sherice!” he shouted. “Don’t make a scene. I need some time with my clients.”

  She recoiled as if he’d hit her, and her jaw slid to the side as she sized up her alternatives. “Fine,” she finally said, “I’ll change and get my purse.” This is gonna cost you big-time was never spoken but certainly implied. Mason invited them in and offered them wine as they sat at a large, round table with a gleaming lacquer finish and a huge centerpiece of pine, white hydrangea, red candles and sprigs of holly.

  A few minutes later Sherice reappeared in jeans, heels and a short, faux-rabbit white jacket. “I’ll be downstairs at the shoe shop. Call me when you’re finished.”

  “I will,” Mason promised, and bristling, she stormed out of the apartment.

  “Now,” Mason said as the door slammed shut, “why don’t you tell me what you want and make it short. My hourly fee can’t begin to touch the damage she can do to my credit card in fifteen minutes.”

  So predictable.

  Regan Pescoli, tough-as-nails detective for the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, had a very visible Achilles heel: her kids.

  How lucky am I to learn about their abduction or…would it be abdication?

  She, of course, won’t take it lying down.

  And the closest route to her ex’s house is through the mountains…how perfect.

  As if God is making up for all the trouble with that Jillian Rivers woman. So I wait. Dressed warmly, my shot clear despite the snow, I know exactly at what point the Jeep will be most vulnerable. She’ll drive up the hill and try to make the corner that she’s driven a hundred times or more. But she’ll be distracted, not really expecting any ice. Maybe listening to the police band. More likely fuming, seeing red.

  I’ve done my homework.

  The road is slick.

  I’m positioned on the ridge.

  My shot is clear.

  And I hear the rumble of a deep engine.

  Not that of a small car, no, but of a truck or an SUV.

  I feel a little heady.

  This one…this one is important.

  Not that they all aren’t, but Regan Pescoli, oh, excuse me, Detective Pescoli—her participation is key, and there’s an irony to her being part of the plan, a sweet, sweet satisfaction. Maybe she’ll be the one. Maybe I’ll allow myself the pleasure of her. Once she’s in my control, of course. Only after she’s mentally broken down to the point that she sees me as her savior. Then, perhaps, when she’s lying naked on the mattress, her wounds healing, when she begs me…

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The beams of headlights appear, though it’s not yet quite dark, and the Jeep growls as it claws its way up the hill.

  A finger of anticipation slides down my spine, and I lick my lips, feeling the frigid air upon them. I’m warm enough in my white down outerwear, but I love the feel of the winter against the few parts of my skin that are exposed.

  It adds a little zing to the moment…oh the moment.

  It’s so near I can almost taste it.

  Come on, come on.

  My hand is steady
, my gloved finger upon the trigger, my eye pressed to the sight of the rifle, the crosshairs in perfect position.

  Come to Daddy.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  What was the line from one of the old Airplane movies? This wasn’t the week to give up smoking? Or drinking? Or sniffing glue, or whatever? Well, in Pescoli’s mind, this was not the week to give up smoking. She felt for her “last resort” pack and found it empty. Crumpling it in her fist, she threw it on the floor of her Jeep.

  She was mad. And yeah, a little hurt. She felt like after all that she’d done for her kids, her wonderful children, after all of her sacrifices to give them what they wanted, to keep them safe, to make a home for them when one father died and the other took off, that they, those precious little people she’d adored with all of her heart, had turned out to be traitors.

  She even understood it, kind of, as the Jeep climbed the ridge of hills separating her place from Lucky’s. How many times had she thought to herself, if only the hills would grow and become a real barrier, insurmountable spires that would lock him away from the kids forever? She’d had that dream several times in the past, when he’d forgotten Bianca’s birthday and left her waiting for a shopping trip that had never happened, or when he’d promised Jeremy tickets to a ball game or a trip to Denver that, of course, never came to pass, or when he gave Bianca earrings that he’d “picked out special for my little girl,” only to have Bianca find out, with a slip of the tongue, that he’d bought them for Michelle and she hadn’t liked them.

  Yeah, a real prince among men, our Lucky, she thought, setting her jaw as the Jeep bucked and lurched a little, sliding more than she expected. The snow was coming down and piling up on this unused stretch of road, but the vehicle was in four-wheel-drive and this had never been a problem before.

  She held tight to the wheel, and each time the wheels didn’t grab, she didn’t panic, just eased her way through. She’d been driving in this stuff for years. When the tires found traction again, and the road had straightened a bit, she made a quick call to Alvarez, who didn’t pick up.

  “It’s me. Hey, I’ve got a personal issue to deal with. Lucky and the kids. It might take a while, so cover for me, will ya?” She clicked the phone off, confident Selena Alvarez, rock steady, without all the pitfalls of ex-husbands and rebellious children, would pick up the slack. Besides, Pescoli would do the same for her. It was understood.

  Rather than turn on the radio, as the reception was crappy in these hills and canyons, and she was sick to the back teeth of schmaltzy or cheery Christmas carols, she slid in the first CD she came to and, as the first notes of a Tim McGraw song played through the speakers, felt betrayed all over again. This was one of Lucky’s damned CDs, one he’d forgotten to take with him when he left. She ejected it and tossed it onto the floor in front of the passenger seat to join the discarded, wadded cigarette pack.

  Wasn’t there anything else?

  Oh damn, the wheels were sliding again. What the hell was this? Ice? She was near the crest of the hill, only a few more feet to climb, then around the corner and she’d start down, except the rig insisted on slipping every so often.

  “Losin’ your touch,” she chided herself.

  Crack!

  Pescoli automatically ducked at the sound of the rifle blast and reached for her sidearm. She felt the bullet hit her tire, even heard something ping against metal. She straightened behind the wheel as she registered what was happening. The killer? Hit…me?

  The car spun, turning wildly, rotating around and around. The edge rushed up. Oh no! Faster and faster, the Jeep spun out of control. The canyon rim came nearer. She scrabbled for the cell phone, grabbed it just as one wheel slid over the edge and then the second followed.

  A second later, her world spun dizzily as the entire Jeep slid and then tumbled, over and over, rolling down the hill. Pescoli dropped the phone but her fingers were tight on the grip of her gun.

  Terrified, knowing that she was probably going to die, that she’d never see her kids again, she held fast to the pistol. If, somehow, she survived this, she thought, panicking, her heart beating so fast she thought it might explode, she was going to shoot the son of a bitch.

  Straight through his sick heart.

  “I can only tell you what I know and it’s nothing,” Mason Rivers said, and MacGregor believed him. He didn’t doubt for a minute that the slick attorney could lie easily, that he was as slippery as an eel through rocks, but right now, staring at Jillian, Mason Rivers was telling the truth.

  And the damned thing was, Jillian’s ex-husband was still in love with her. He tried to mask it, of course, but it was there, plain as the nose on his face, the interested way he looked at her, the slight cock of his head, the manner in which he seemed about to touch her hand, seated as she was next to him, but restraining himself. And when he thought Jillian wasn’t looking, he stared at her and sighed.

  Whatever problems he and Jillian had endured during their brief marriage, MacGregor suspected it was nothing compared with what he dealt with on a daily basis with the churlish, young and jealous Sherice. The too-often quoted “be careful what you wish for” warning ran through MacGregor’s head.

  He had nothing against younger women. Hell, he’d had two friends who had married women who were over fifteen years younger than they were, but in each case, the woman had been equal to her partner in intellect and personality. Their marriages had worked and were working. But never had he seen it work when the young woman had never quite matured from the “it’s all about me” phase, a place Sherice Rivers not only had found but intended never to leave.

  “I’ll check around,” Mason promised Jillian, barely making eye contact with MacGregor. But he loaded up his computer, jumped onto the Internet and searched out everything he could about Aaron Caruso, googling him with Spokane, Missoula and then Washington, Idaho and Montana. Of course, MacGregor and Chilcoate had run these searches themselves, but MacGregor had wanted to see all Mason Rivers’s cards. He hadn’t completely written him off the suspect list, and the gun in his jacket pocket was proof enough of how little he trusted anyone who could be involved in this deception and near-homicide.

  But in meeting with Rivers, and seeing that wistful spark in the attorney’s eye, MacGregor had decided Mason Rivers wasn’t their man.

  And Chilcoate had called with interesting information.

  A few minutes later MacGregor and Jillian took their leave. Jillian’s ex walked them outside, leaving them on the snowy sidewalk as he turned into a trendy store showcasing purses and shoes with a sign promising “Fine Italian Leather.” The windows were decorated in gold and silver balls, tinsel strung between the purses sitting on beds of white, glittery fake snow.

  “Christmas, ya gotta love it,” Jillian said, and seemed relieved that the conversation with her ex-husband was behind them. “Now what?”

  “How about a hotel?”

  “A hotel?”

  “Uh-huh, with hot water for a decent shower, room service for an overpriced meal and Wi-Fi.”

  “Wi-Fi? Why do we need an Internet connection?”

  “To find out about your first husband.”

  “Just like that?” she asked, snapping her fingers and arching an eyebrow.

  “Well…maybe not that quick.” But the truth of the matter was that he wanted a little anonymity. If Jillian’s attacker had anticipated they might hunt him to Spokane, then it was logical to think that Mason’s condo and work might be watched. And he wanted to share with her what he’d learned in his phone call with Chilcoate.

  Here in Spokane, things were definitely not what they seemed.

  Zane turned the collar of his jacket up and helped Jillian back to the truck. She was walking better, her ankle able to bear a little weight, but he still felt protective of her, maybe even a little responsible for her. And though he hated to admit it, his thoughts had gone down the fantasy road with her more than once. He’d considered kissing her, really kissing her, and se
eing where it would lead. He’d imagined feeling her fingers on his bare skin, her breath against the crook of his neck, the way her nipples would tighten if he touched them. He’d even gone so far as to think about sliding into her warmth, but he trained himself to come up with other thoughts, darker ones that reminded him they weren’t safe. And it would be smarter, a whole lot smarter, if he let his fantasies stay where they belonged, locked away and never acted upon.

  Yeah, sure, like you haven’t already figured out that tonight might be the night. Why the hell do you try to kid yourself, MacGregor? You want to jump her bones and do it with her all night long. You’ve wanted to from the moment she opened her eyes in your cabin and you caught her checking you out.

  You know she might go for it.

  But then again, you know that once you cross that icy bridge, there just might not be any coming back.

  “Come on,” he said, looking over his shoulder, making certain they weren’t being watched. Twilight was casting long shadows over the city and the street lamps were glowing as snow swirled around them. It worried him that here, in the city, he felt more vulnerable than he did in his cabin in the wilderness.

  And how safe was that? Wasn’t Jillian attacked outside the cabin? Wasn’t Harley shot less than a hundred feet from the back door?

  Still, he was a loner by nature, and he had only to remember what had happened in Denver to distrust this city, even one that seemed calm, almost serene with the nightfall. Colored lights drew his eye to a park, and if he let himself, he might just feel a little Christmas cheer.

  But that would be foolish.

  The twinkling bright beads of illumination could easily be a false front. He felt the pistol, heavy in his pocket, and was glad for the bit of peace of mind it offered.

  Who knew what lurked in the gathering dusk of this unfamiliar city?

  “Pescoli never showed up again?” Sheriff Grayson was walking toward the exit, with Sturgis only a step behind. The black Lab looked up at Alvarez, and she petted his head, all the while thinking again that she should get a pet of some kind. A cat or a dog or even a bird. Something, a living, breathing thing that she could care for.