The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  “Who? No, wait a minute.” The key slid into the lock and as he pressed a shoulder to the glass door, it swung open. “Do I know you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Caruso visibly tensed. “Who are you?”

  MacGregor felt a cynical smile twist his lips. “Trust me, Caruso, you don’t really want to know.”

  “Caruso?” Some coffee slopped over the lip of Rousseau’s cup and onto the wet sidewalk, an area protected by the awning of the shop. Stunned, he said in a low whisper, “What are you talking about?”

  “Your real name. The one your parents gave you. Aaron Caruso. Remember?”

  “What? No. I’m Carl Rousseau—” he began, but he blanched and his eyes moved quickly from side to side, as if he were a trapped rat searching for a quick escape.

  “Your name is Rousseau now,” MacGregor corrected, his blood beginning to boil. “But that’s not real and we both know it, so don’t bother trying to argue. The truth is, I don’t know how you wrangled that, but your real name is Aaron Caruso. You’re forty years old. You were married to Jillian White, then you took a hike in Suriname and didn’t come back. Faked your own damned death and took off with other people’s money. Left Jillian holding the bag. The empty bag.” His hand curled over the butt of his gun. “What kind of a coward are you?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Like hell.” MacGregor snapped. He shoved Caruso into his shop, forcing him out of the street and into the dark interior that smelled of dry goods and oiled wood.

  A bell over the transom jingled and the surprised storekeeper stumbled over a male mannequin dressed head to toe in the latest fishing gear in a display made to look like a camp site. The mannequin’s tackle box clattered against the hardwood floors, brightly colored fishing flies and lures spraying at MacGregor’s feet, a jar of salmon eggs rolling toward the counter. For a second Caruso flexed, rounding on MacGregor, his eyes glittering with fear and hatred. His hands were curled into tight fists.

  Good!

  MacGregor would like nothing better than to punch the guy out. One fist clenched and his other tightened over the gun in his pocket. In a sizzling second, his brain flashed back to the fight in Denver, to Ned Tomkins’ bloodied face and his own arrest. He still wanted to knock this bastard over the goddamned moon. To hell with the consequences!

  “This is about Jillian,” Caruso whispered, the truth finally dawning on him as he stood, a little dazed.

  “No shit, this is about Jillian!”

  All the starch left Caruso’s body as he stood in his shop, surrounded by displays for tents and backpacks and boots. Canoes hung from the high, exposed ceiling while fishing rods and hunting rifles were displayed high on the walls, illuminated dimly by soft fluorescent security lights still glowing and humming.

  Just when MacGregor was about to get into it with him, to knock the bastard to hell and back, Caruso, the coward, crumpled, his two clenched fists relaxing. “Oh Jesus.” He lifted a hand to his face. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ve been stalking her.”

  “What? Stalking Jillian?” Caruso shook his head as if confused. He swiped at his brow, his fingers trembling. “No, why would I—?”

  “You deny it?”

  “I haven’t seen Jillian in…Oh dear God.” In a second he aged fifteen years. Instead of trying to argue or fight, he just nodded his head, his shoulders slumping as if he bore the weight of the world—an Atlas, overtaxed and overburdened. He fell onto a stool in the display near the fake campfire. “I would never.”

  “Yeah, right.” MacGregor didn’t believe him, but something was wrong here. Caruso’s reaction wasn’t what he expected. This was a man who had tried to kill Jillian, and MacGregor had expected a fight. He’d looked forward to it. So what was with the whipped-dog act? At least now, he was in charge. Just to make certain that Caruso didn’t pull a fast one, that he realized MacGregor meant business, he hauled the pathetic lump of misery to his feet and pulled out his pistol, shoving the barrel into Caruso’s jacket, just under his ribs. “I thought maybe you’d like to see your wife again. Let’s go.” He nudged Caruso toward the door with the gun. “And maybe before we get there, you should figure out just who the hell you are.”

  Jillian kicked. Hard. Her thoughts were a dizzy tangle and the world was going black, but she drove her leg upward in a fury. At the same time she threw one hand at Falda’s face, scratching her cheek before her fingers twined in Falda’s thick hair. She yanked with all her might and the woman pinning her down bit back a scream. Momentarily distracted by pain, her hand slipped a little and the rag over Jillian’s nose and mouth slid, enough that Jillian could suck in some fresh air.

  Yanking hard on Falda’s hair, Jillian bucked upward, trying to get into a position she could use, one she’d learned in martial arts.

  Falda was caught off guard.

  Jillian rolled to one side, her movements still clumsy. If she could just get into position and her head would clear, if she could gain more control, she was certain she could take this sick woman down.

  “You sick bitch,” Falda hissed, one hand trying to loosen Jillian’s hold on her hair. “I knew you’d be trouble.”

  Jillian flung her head and the rag soaked in ether slipped off her face. She tried to scream for help but her words were only pained whispers from an injured throat. No one would be able to hear her, but surely someone would hear the struggle or Falda’s scream if Jillian could wound her.

  She had to free her legs!

  Ankle throbbing, pain burning through her body, she struggled in an attempt to make as much noise as possible, so that someone, please, anyone would hear them. For a second she thought of MacGregor. Where was he?

  In a horrifying instant she imagined that Falda, whoever she was, had found MacGregor first and killed him. Her heart went stone cold. No! No! No! She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t! He had to be safe. Oh God, please.

  Twisting violently, one hand still tangled in the woman’s coarse hair, her other arm free, she beat at her heavy assailant. Adrenaline sizzled through her blood as she slammed her fist into the woman’s nose.

  Falda shrieked in pain.

  Blood spurted and rained down on Jillian’s face.

  She squirmed away, trying to get some leverage by dragging Falda’s head backward, exposing her throat. One blow to that soft spot and—

  Falda wrenched her head away and squealed in rage as a handful of her hair tore from its roots.

  It was Jillian’s chance.

  She kicked upward, ignoring the pain, forcing Falda forward. Then she grabbed at her arms so that she could initiate an upa mount escape she’d learned in jiu-jitsu.

  She flipped Falda over and Jillian was on top. Now if she could just—

  Falda moved suddenly, and Jillian couldn’t react fast enough, the effects of the ether still causing her to be sluggish and uncontrolled.

  Quickly Falda rolled away and onto her feet. “You miserable bitch. Why the hell won’t you just die?” she demanded as she withdrew a knife from a pocket of her torn skirt. Her hair was wild and standing on end. Blood was smeared over the lower half of her face and it stained her blouse and vest.

  With her intent, ruthless gaze and bared teeth, Falda paced between Jillian and the door like a predator stalking maimed prey.

  Jillian thought of the gun in her jacket pocket, but it was too far to reach. The phone, too, was on the far side of the room by the bed, and even if she had the time to dial for help, Jillian couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word.

  And Falda, seething with her twisted fixation on killing Jillian, stood squarely between Jillian and freedom.

  Jillian felt cold to her bones.

  Every muscle in her body cried out in pain, but she wouldn’t give up. She refused to stop fighting.

  With a cruel, determined smile, Falda stepped forward. Her eyes burned with her obsession. Her face was taut with anticipation. The hunting knife, with its wickedly curved handle and ser
rated blade, was clutched tightly in her strong fingers. “It’s over, Jillian,” she hissed. “And long overdue.”

  MacGregor tromped on the accelerator. The truck roared through the city as he drove with his left hand, the gun in his right leveled at the man to whom Jillian had once been married.

  “You don’t need that,” Caruso said, staring at the gun. He seemed defeated and tired, his skin pasty and sallow.

  MacGregor wasn’t buying it. For all he knew this con man could be acting crushed, all the while hoping for an opportunity to grab the weapon and turn the tables on MacGregor. No way. MacGregor kept the muzzle aimed at the man’s heart as he sped through the cold streets bustling with people making their way to work. Traffic was heavy, taillights glowing red on wet pavement. Snow fell in bitter tiny flakes, freezing hard on the road where the warmth of engines and exhaust hadn’t melted it.

  If Caruso made a move, then they might both die, but MacGregor knew he had the advantage. If the guy tried to get out of the truck, MacGregor would be after him in a second. Aaron Caruso wasn’t getting away. Not again.

  Thankfully the hotel wasn’t far.

  He’d already called the local police but hadn’t waited for them to appear. Instead he told the dispatcher he’d meet the officers at the hotel. It galled him to bring in the authorities, but he had to for Jillian’s safety, even if they felt the need to arrest him for all the laws he was currently breaking, speeding being the least.

  He just didn’t give a damn about anything but ending this.

  And ending it now.

  The truck wheeled around a corner and MacGregor tromped on the accelerator, speeding through a yellow light. He passed a Volkswagen bug, steering clear of pedestrians, bikers and other vehicles as his wipers slapped the snow from his windshield.

  “You’re MacGregor, right?” Caruso asked, as if finally putting the pieces together. “I read about you. You saved Jillian from that psychopath they call the Star-Crossed Killer, the guy who leaves his victims to die in the wilderness. What a sick son of a bitch.”

  So the guy was still trying to wriggle out of it, deny that he was the one who had lashed Jillian to that tree, intent on letting her freeze. Caruso was trying to deflect his guilt. Which was just plain bullshit.

  And yet…

  “Don’t give me that crap about her being abducted by the Star-Crossed Killer. We both know that’s just a cover-up. You took Jillian out there to the woods. You’re the one who lured her there, then used the killer as a smoke screen. You tried to make the crimes look like the others, but you failed, Caruso.”

  “What? No!” He seemed stricken.

  “Cut the act. We both know what you did. When we get to the hotel you can explain it all to the cops, try and feed them your line of bull and see if they buy into it. But you’ll have some major explaining to do, not only for kidnapping and trying to kill Jillian but for all the havoc you wreaked on the lives of all those people you stole from. You’re going to have so many investors and insurance companies crawling up your ass, you’ll never be able to sit again!”

  From the corner of his eye MacGregor saw Caruso’s face drain of all color. He looked as if he might piss himself. “No.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously. You have to believe me. I was here, at the shop. You can check. I didn’t have anything to do with…” As if he suddenly understood the magnitude of his crimes, he let out a long breath and stared through the windshield. But he wasn’t seeing the taillights of the truck a few feet in front of them. No. Caruso was searching inside his soul and finding something that scared him to death. “Oh, no…no, no, no,” he said so quietly it was barely audible over the growl of the truck’s engine and the noise of traffic rolling through the streets.

  “You can’t deny any of this, you sick prick.”

  “No, I…Look. Yeah. You’re right. I did steal the money, I did disappear,” Caruso said in a rush, as if suddenly confessing his darkest sins to his parish priest. “But I never did anything to Jillian. I would never—”

  “Oh hell!” MacGregor wanted to smack the guy. He was driving five miles over the speed limit when the light ahead turned yellow and he was stuck behind the idling furniture delivery truck. “Didn’t do anything to her? What about leaving her alone? To think you were dead? To face your investors, the ones you stole from? To try and convince the police that she wasn’t in on your scam?”

  “But—”

  “Then, years later, something must have triggered you into thinking she would find you, so you lured her to Montana so that you could kill her. It’s as simple as that.” But even as MacGregor spoke the words, he realized the flaw in his logic. His gut went cold.

  If Caruso wanted to stay hidden, to remain Carl Rousseau, why send the pictures? Why entice Jillian into leaving Seattle to find him?

  MacGregor’s hands tightened over the steering wheel.

  He saw the horrified, fearful expression on Caruso’s face and knew the guy was holding back. “Wait a sec,” he said, his heart drumming with a new fear. “I’m wrong about who sent the pictures, aren’t I?”

  Caruso closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.

  MacGregor could almost see the wheels whirling in the man’s brain.

  “Dear God,” Caruso whispered, his head slowly moving from side to side, as if he were denying the turn of his own dark thoughts. “I didn’t think she’d go this far.”

  “What, you sick bastard! Who?” MacGregor demanded as the truck in front of them finally began moving again. “What is it you know?”

  “It’s Falda,” Caruso said, his jaw tight.

  “What?”

  “Falda. My wife. My second wife. She’s…she’s been gone lately, but she’s back in Spokane now.” A muscle in the side of his jaw worked. “You’d better step on it, MacGregor,” he advised. “When Falda wants something, she doesn’t let anything get in her way, and I’m damned sure she wants Jillian dead.”

  MacGregor gunned it.

  Heart-thudding, adrenaline sizzling through his bloodstream, he peeled around the truck, narrowly missing a parked car and eliciting a loud, angry honk from the delivery vehicle as he headed for the hotel. Caruso had a jealous wife, a wife so jealous of his first one that she would try to kill her?

  Christ, how sick was that?

  “Where’s Falda now?”

  “I don’t know.” Caruso shook his head as he chewed on his lip and stared out the window. Suddenly MacGregor didn’t doubt Aaron Caruso or Carl Rousseau was telling the truth, and it scared the living tar out of him.

  “Does she know her way around a rifle?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Can you call her? Does she have a cell?”

  “Yes…but she won’t pick up.”

  “Try.”

  Rousseau scrounged in his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell. MacGregor still had his gun aimed at his heart. The hotel was less than a mile away, up a slight hill. With one eye on the road, and the other on his passenger, MacGregor threaded through traffic, the big truck lurching as he braked suddenly to turn. Caruso nearly dropped the phone as he dialed.

  “Come on, come on, pick up,” he said, but they both knew it was no use.

  “Where are you taking me? What hotel?” Rousseau asked.

  “The Courtland. Why?”

  “Of course,” he said, silently indicating that the Courtland was without question, the best hotel in the city. “She’s there.”

  “What?”

  “Falda. She’s at the hotel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. It’s just a feeling I have. If Jillian’s there, Falda will hunt her down.”

  Cold fear knotted MacGregor’s stomach and he told himself that Caruso could be bluffing, trying to derail him, but there was a severity in the man’s face, a horrified conviction that convinced MacGregor that this con man might just be telling the truth.

  “It makes sense,” Caruso admitted. “I met Falda years ago, while
I was married to Jillian. We had an affair and together decided I would just disappear with the money. Well, that’s long gone. I spent a lot of it hiding my identity, and investing poorly and Falda…oh, hell, she’s been jealous of my first wife for a long time. From the beginning. Even though she and I cooked up the disappearing act and pulled it off, even though I left Jillian, Falda never thought I stopped loving Jillian.” He hesitated, then added, “Maybe she’s right.”

  MacGregor saw red. His jaw was clenched so hard it ached. He jetted around a slow-moving minivan and, at last, the hotel’s massive stone façade loomed two blocks ahead.

  “I don’t have time for this,” MacGregor growled. Jillian’s life was in danger.

  But Caruso shook his head, now totally convinced. “Just six months ago, Falda was cleaning the shop. She found pictures of Jillian in an envelope in my desk. Photos I couldn’t quite give up. I’ve had them since we were first married.”

  MacGregor scowled at the man, wishing he could beat the tar out of him right here and now. This was why Jillian’s life was threatened. Because of some damned pictures?

  “What happened?”

  “Falda went ballistic. Out of her mind. Even though I swore that I’d forgotten I’d saved them, she cut them into tiny pieces in front of me, then threw them in my face. She was…beside herself.”

  “You idiot.”

  “I kept them because I wanted to remember a better time. The truth of the matter is that I’m dying. Cancer. It’s terminal. Lately I’ve been thinking it was time to put things straight.”

  MacGregor still didn’t trust him. This could all be an act. But the guy did appear a bit jaundiced. “Put things straight how? By what? Coming forward? Confessing?”

  Caruso didn’t answer, but MacGregor guessed the truth. “You were going to contact Jillian, weren’t you?”

  Again, silence. Just the sound of the truck’s engine and slap of wipers against the snow. Caruso’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “And do what? Ask her forgiveness, so you could go to your grave with a clear conscience?”

  “Something like that.”