The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Once the tea was steeping, Lois slid that cup across the Formica.

  Alvarez reminded, “You said, ‘She was a nice enough girl, or woman, really, just a little . . . ,’ and then you didn’t finish. What were you going to say?”

  “Oh. Well.” As if she were suddenly lost in thought, Lois dunked her tea bag several times, then let it steep. “Jocelyn was complicated, not that I knew her all that well.” She pinched the last drops of tea out of the tiny wet bag, then tossed it into the trash. Immediately Kaiser stuck his long nose into the open container. “Out of there, mister! You know better!”

  Tail between his legs, the doxie scurried out of the kitchen. A step behind him, Lois walked into the dining area and waved Alvarez into one of the antique chairs.

  “What do you mean, ‘complicated’?”

  “Maybe that’s the wrong word.” Blowing across her cup, Lois settled onto a well-worn cushion in one of the chairs. She rested her elbows on the table. “Jocelyn was young and. . . not really wild, more like enthusiastic and so anxious to fall in love. She’d already been married, y’know. Not once, but twice, and what was she? Thirty-four?” Disapproval etched the lines near the corners of Lois’s mouth.

  “Thirty-five,” Alvarez said. “It’s not uncommon these days to be married several times by that age.”

  “Oh, I know. I know, and I’m not judging her.” Shaking her head emphatically, she added, “But it seemed to me that she was looking for a man. Really looking hard. Had dated online, I think, and then there was the father of one of her students, and she just was getting a little desperate.” She tasted her tea. “Again, in my opinion.”

  “A lot of men visit her?”

  Lois was sipping, but she lifted her free hand and waggled it, as if she didn’t really know the answer. Maybe yes. Maybe no.

  “There were some that I saw around here. But I’m not a snoop, so I wouldn’t really know. There was the rancher who was a father to one of her students. I think I mentioned him. Trask or Trevor or . . . Tall. Good-looking.”

  “Trace O’Halleran.”

  “That’s the one. But that relationship was a while ago.” She pursed her lips as she remembered. “I think she was very disappointed about that one. Her biological clock was really ticking.”

  “Had she been dating anyone recently?”

  “No one I could name. But there were a couple, I think. One man, tall and looked kind of like a bodybuilder, carried himself that way, you know, erect, stiff-shouldered. Drove a dark truck, I think. I only remember because Kaiser, the little stinker, lifted his leg on the truck’s front tire. A Michelin. I remember.”

  “Local plates?”

  “Oh . . . I have no idea.” She was shaking her head. “The second Kaiser did his thing, I hurried into the house.”

  “Do you remember what kind of truck?” Alvarez asked. This was probably nothing, but they didn’t have a lot to go on.

  “No . . . but it was large, not one of those smaller ones.”

  “Domestic?”

  She shrugged. “All I remember is that it was dark. Black or blue or gray and was fairly new, I think, no dents, and had really nice tires.” She smothered a little bit of a smile, as if her dog were such a naughty, but clever little beast.

  “But you didn’t get a look at the man’s face.”

  “No.”

  “What about his ethnic background or race? White? Black? Hispanic?”

  “White . . . I think. Can’t be sure.”

  So much for identifying the mystery man.

  “He was here often?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just noticed his truck a couple of times. Only saw him once, walking up to the door, and I was behind him, with Kaiser.” Offering a feeble smile, she said, “Sorry.”

  “You said there was a second one?”

  “Oh . . . maybe. Maybe not.” Lois thought it over. “Might’ve been just the one with the dark truck.”

  Alvarez asked a few more questions but got no more information. Ms. Emmerson knew little about Jocelyn’s friends, though she thought most of her social life was through people she worked with at Evergreen Elementary. She had heard of a sister living somewhere out of state and parents maybe; the two women had essentially met at the mailbox or the common area or the parking lot when Jocelyn was jogging and Lois was walking Kaiser. The information Lois had gleaned had been in bits and pieces.

  Alvarez learned what she could, which wasn’t much more, then drained the remaining tea from her cup. She was standing, intent on ending the impromptu visit, when Lois looked up at her expectantly.

  “Mind if I read the leaves?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The tea leaves in your cup. That’s why I gave you loose leaves, so I could read them.”

  “You do that?” Alvarez couldn’t believe it. Since moving to Grizzly Falls, she’d met Ivor Hicks, who swore he’d been abducted and probed by aliens, and Grace Perchant, the woman who believed she spoke to ghosts and saw the future, and now this ... woman, who looked like an ex-librarian, was going to read the dregs of her hot beverage?

  “Of course I can.”

  “Have at it,” she offered, but Lois had already stood and rounded the table so that she could peer into the cup. She turned it upside down on a napkin so that the final drips of tea were removed from the cup; then she righted the porcelain again and studied what remained inside.

  “Oh, my . . . hmmm . . .”

  Alvarez wasn’t going to rise to the so obvious bait.

  “This is interesting,” Lois went on and, when Alvarez didn’t respond, said, “It looks like you’re in for a change ... work-related, maybe? Or ... maybe not. Certainly a love interest. There’s a heart in your near future, but . . .” She frowned.

  Don’t ask! However, the words tumbled out of her mouth. “But what?”

  “There’s danger, too ... evil.” She pointed to a squiggle of small leaves on the rim of the cup. “This is the present, and here, the heart, a little further into the future . . .” One of her graying eyebrows lifted. “A new boyfriend?”

  “I doubt it.” Alvarez pulled her coat from the bar stool.

  “I take it you’re a nonbeliever.”

  “Depends upon what you’re asking me to believe in.” She was just shrugging into the coat’s sleeves when Kaiser, who had been lying beneath the table, scrambled to his feet. Barking madly, he raced to the sliding door, where he stood on his hind legs and began clawing at the glass while growling and barking and working himself into a frenzy.

  “Hush! Kaiser! You stop that!” Lois yelled as she scooted her chair back. “What in the Sam Hill?” She was on her feet and heading to the back door. “Oh . . . my.” Her hand flew over her chest as she looked through the glass.

  Alvarez followed her gaze and spied a bedraggled cat seated on the back patio’s covered table, its luminous eyes unblinking as it stared into the apartment through the slider.

  “Dear God in heaven, that poor thing is Jocelyn’s. Oh, for the love of . . . I can’t let her in because of Kaiser. He’d tear her limb from limb ... but she’s freezing.”

  “I’ll take her.”

  “Oh, no! I won’t let you take her to a shelter! We’ll find her a home.” Lois was horrified as she bent down and picked up her quivering, anxious dog.

  “I meant I’d take her home.”

  “Oh, well ... good!”

  Still barking as if he’d seen the face of Satan, Kaiser wiggled and scrambled as Lois carried him out of the living room. “His kennel is in my bedroom,” she called over her shoulder, then reprimanded the dog. “You know better, Mr. Kaiser. . . .” Her voice became muffled, and the cat, frost in its whiskers, looked up at Alvarez.

  Alvarez unlocked the door and slid it open. Without a second’s hesitation the cat, black with white toes and a spot under her throat, strolled inside to rub up against Alvarez’s jean-clad leg. “Hey.” She leaned down, petted the cat’s arched back, and melted when the animal started doing figure eig
hts between her ankles.

  Somewhere a door shut.

  “I swear he hates cats!” Lois said, returning to the living area. “Oh, I see you’ve already made friends. Poor little thing! She must be starving.”

  “I’ll feed her.”

  “Good! Good!” Lois tried to pet the cat, but it ran and hid beneath the sofa. “Uh-oh. So now she’s shy. You know, I’ve got an extra pet carrier. I used it when Kaiser was a puppy. We could put her in that.”

  “If we can catch her.”

  “You try and I’ll find the crate.”

  To Alvarez’s surprise, the cat didn’t put up much of a fight. Within ten minutes, she was in the car, driving back to her own apartment, the animal yowling piteously from its carrier in the backseat.

  She wondered, as she hauled Jane Doe, the name she’d settled on for the moment, toward her front door, if she would have the heart to take the cat to the shelter, or if as of now Jocelyn Wallis’s cat was hers. In her mind’s eye she saw Lois Emmerson and her dog in matching sweaters and couldn’t help but fast-forward to her own life. Would she suffer the same fate as the older lady? End up living alone with an animal who was a surrogate child, a cat with her own set of clothes?

  “Never,” she breathed, unlocking her door and stepping into the sterile studio she called home. She fed the cat from a can she’d gone back and swiped from Jocelyn Wallis’s apartment, folded a towel for a kitty bed, and let the cat explore. While Jane Doe was nosing around, Alvarez poured some of the kitty litter she’d also taken from the dead woman’s home into a box with short sides. She placed the cat into the box. “Remember this, okay, Jane?” she asked, and the cat promptly ran out of the bathroom. “Great.”

  Alvarez hurried through the shower, toweled off quickly, and changed into black slacks and a rust-colored turtleneck. She added big hoop earrings, and for once, let her long black hair fall free.

  Back in her small kitchen area, she found a dusty bottle of Cabernet in the pantry and swiped it clean while the cat dared jump onto the counters. “You’re pushing it,” she warned, and Jane responded by yawning and showing off needle-sharp teeth. “Be good.”

  Not on your life, she imagined the cat saying as she grabbed her coat and scarf, threw them on, and, before she could talk herself out of it, snagged the bottle and her purse and walked out the door.

  Snow was softly falling, millions of tiny flakes glistening in the lamplight.

  Telling herself she was six kinds of a fool, she made her way through the coming blizzard to her Jeep, where, once inside, she paused.

  Was she really going to do this?

  Take up Dan Grayson on his offer?

  With a stray cat locked in her apartment?

  Keys poised over the lock, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Oh, hell,” she muttered. What was the worst that could happen? She’d embarrass herself? She’d find him alone with some other woman? He’d be home alone, not expecting anyone and surprised to find her outside his door?

  Who knew?

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Or Nada aventurado, nada adquirido, as she used to say as a teen, an expression that made her grandmother shake her head at her.

  Jabbing the key into the lock, she twisted on the ignition. Seconds later, she was driving out of the lot, through the falling snow, and wondering what the hell she would say to her boss once she landed on his doorstep.

  CHAPTER 14

  “ We’ve been over this before.” In Santana’s large bed, with firelight flickering through the open doorway to the living area of the cabin, Pescoli levered up on one elbow. Sighing, exasperated with her own conflicted emotions, she stared down at the man she hated to admit she loved. God, she was a fool.

  Especially for him.

  The lingering scent of chili—turkey chili, he’d informed her—mingled with the smell of burning wood. Their Thanksgiving dinner had been less than traditional, and she loved him for it. Most of the hours together had been spent right here, in his massive bed, his dog, a husky named Nikita, curled on the floor near the door. Outside the windows, snow fell softly, and for a few peaceful hours it was as if they were totally alone in the world.

  Santana, too, was naked, his skin tanned against the white sheets, his black hair mussed and falling over his forehead, his eyes still dark with passion, and she found him incredibly sexy. Still. After over a year of being together.

  The bastard had the audacity to grin, his teeth a slash of white in the shadowy room. “And I have the feeling we’ll go over it again and again and again before you can face the fact that you need me.”

  “Need you?”

  “Yep. That’s what it is. Deal with it.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Anyone,” he finished for her. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard it enough.”

  “So why are you pressuring me?” He’d asked her to move in with him. Again. A year ago, while she’d been recovering from the mental and physical wounds from dealing with a madman, she’d agreed that living together would be a good idea. It had sounded safe. Smart. Been so tempting. But now ...

  “Come on, Regan. Would it be so bad?” He was reaching up, his warm, calloused hands scaling her ribs. Her skin tingled where he touched her, her blood warming. “We could have a lot of fun.” He raised himself upward and touched the tip of one of her nipples with his tongue. His breath was warm against her wet skin. “Think about it. Making love every day, late at night, and in the morning . . .”

  She felt that familiar yearning deep within. As if he sensed her response, he reached lower and fanned his fingers between her legs, fingertips skimming the most sensitive of areas. “Think about it,” he whispered against her breast.

  “You know, cowboy, you can be a real bastard when you want to be.”

  “Years of practice.” Again with the tongue. A quick little flick that caused her insides to melt.

  Her damned nipple tightened and she moaned.

  She wanted him. Damn, but she wanted him. It was as if she couldn’t get enough of the man.

  As if he could read her mind, Santana laughed, white teeth a slash of irreverent mirth.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” Quick as a cat, he rolled atop her, pinning her to the mattress, his eyes gleaming a dark, intense fire. “We’ve talked about moving in together for a long time now.”

  “I know, but I still have kids at home—”

  “Who could use a strong father figure.”

  “Oh . . . ,” she said, but just his weight, pressing against her in all the right places, was making it difficult to think straight. What the hell was wrong with her? All of a sudden, when she was pushing forty, she was as randy as a teenager. At least she was with damned Santana, and the worst thing was, the son of a bitch knew it!

  “We have a good thing going just as it is,” she said.

  “But it might be better.”

  “Or worse,” she argued.

  “Come on, Regan, take a chance.” His eyes were dark with the night. He captured her mouth with his, kissed her hard, then nipped at her lower lip.

  “If you think you can convince me by . . . oooh.” His hand was between her legs again, and she couldn’t help but arch upward, her blood racing, her heart beating a wild tattoo. Her fingers curled in the sheets, and finally, she let go, closed her eyes, and groaned as he entered her, feeling that familiar, yet exciting flush that started in the small of her back and worked its way upward as he moved, his breathing suddenly out of control, his skin dewy with sweat.

  Would it be so bad to think of the future?

  To spend the rest of her life with him?

  Right now, she couldn’t think about it, didn’t want to try. For the moment, she would just let the night bring what it may.

  Kacey glanced out the broad back windows of Rolling Hills and decided she was long past her pull date on this Thanksgiving meal with her mother. The snow was coming down, fluffy flakes being caught in the beams of outdoor lighting st
rategically placed around the grounds. A gazebo, decorated with strings of white lights, glowed in the distance, and one of the conifers had been decorated as well.

  Several of the other patrons had finished their meals and, on their way out of the dining area, waved to Maribelle or stopped by to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. Maribelle introduced them to Kacey and wished them all a wonderful holiday season.

  Kacey was about to stand up when a tall, stately man with a shaved head, military bearing, and easy smile paused by their table.

  “Is this your daughter?” he asked, and Maribelle quickly introduced Kacey to David Spencer, who pronounced that he was “charmed.” As if they were on the set of some movie out of the 1950s. “You’re as beautiful as your mother,” he said with a wink at Maribelle, who actually blushed. “Best bridge partner in the place, well, probably the whole damned town. Nice to meet you, Acacia.” Fondly he patted her mother’s shoulder before striding out the double doors to the grand foyer.

  “See why I like it here?” her mother said, her gaze following Spencer’s stiff back.

  “I do. And I see why you were so dead set that I come here. You wanted me to meet him, didn’t you?”

  Her mother started to deny it, then shrugged. “You found me out.”

  “Are you and he serious?”

  “Oh, no!” Maribelle laughed then, a tinkling happy sound that Kacey hadn’t heard in years. “I call him the Commander,” she confided, almost giddy.

  “But you’re in love?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Mom. Don’t lie to me. I can see it plain as day. Why haven’t I heard a word about him before now?”

  “There was really nothing to tell.” But the sparkle in her eyes belied her words. “What do you think?”

  “About him? Or you?”

  “About us.”

  “I just want you to be happy,” Kacey heard herself saying, but beneath her good wishes there were questions, one of which was, why, in all the years she had been married, had her mother never once showed this youthful, giddily happy side to her daughter or husband? Why had Kacey felt the strain of her parents’ marriage for almost as long as she could remember? She’d come to think that her mother had never loved her father, that she’d thought she’d married beneath herself, becoming the wife of a laborer when she had an education, a career ... and, probably, aspirations to something more, something she saw now in David Spencer.