The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Bart was nodding as if everything Pescoli said confirmed his findings. “Ahh, well, someone changed that, now, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah,” Alvarez said on a sigh. “I guess we’d better find out who.”

  Bart smiled thinly. “Glad that’s your job, not mine.”

  Tuesday passed uneventfully, and on Wednesday, her day off from working at the clinic, Kacey spent time playing with Bonzi, paying bills, and picking up the house.

  After some debate, she called Trace O’Halleran and got his answering machine, so she left a message asking about Eli and leaving her cell phone number.

  It hadn’t really been a ruse; she was concerned about the boy, more about his flu symptoms than his arm. But she couldn’t lie to herself. Of course she’d hoped to talk to Trace. She hadn’t been able to get him off her mind.

  In the late morning she decided to be proactive on the mystery of the look-alikes and made a quick trip to Fit Forever Gym in search of a trainer named Gloria. She talked to a cute girl of around eighteen behind the reception area and made up a story about thinking of joining the club. The receptionist, in white-blond pigtails, had the enthusiasm of youth and, Kacey guessed, the promise of a commission, as she quickly explained the benefits of becoming a Fit Forever member. When Kacey didn’t immediately sign on the dotted line, she lost a bit of fire and just slid some brochures across the long counter, turning to a more promising customer, the next guy in line.

  Quickly, Kacey went through the pamphlets. Sure enough, one of the trainers was Gloria Sanders-O’Malley, the woman Elle had said resembled her. Kacey walked down a hallway, as if she were already a member; she didn’t want someone showing her around. At a large glass window that looked into a workout room, she saw the woman who had to be Gloria Sanders-O’Malley. It was just damned eerie as she watched the woman lead a spinning class. None of the members of the class looked a thing like her, thank you, God, but Gloria did have the same bone structure in her face as Kacey. Her hair was short, spiky, and a rich red-brown; her body toned to that of a true athlete.

  When the class ended, Kacey entered and introduced herself as a potential member. Gloria was polite but didn’t seem to notice the resemblance, and Kacey didn’t bring it up.

  Maybe she was chasing shadows.

  Not sure what she thought about that, Kacey returned home and spent a few hours at her desk with her laptop. The e-mail from the state hadn’t come through yet, so she decided to call a friend of hers from college whom she knew worked at the state offices in Helena, in the computer records no less. Years earlier, while attending the university, Riza had helped improve Kacey’s computer skills in exchange for help in literature and Spanish.

  It took three transfers and nearly seven minutes before Kacey was connected with Riza; apparently somewhere along the line she must’ve gotten divorced and taken back her last name.

  “Hey, Riza. This is Kacey Collins . . . well, Lambert now.”

  “Well, hey. How’ve ya been?” Even as Riza spoke, the sound of her computer keys clicking reached Kacey’s ears.

  “Good, good.” They caught up a bit, and yes, Riza was divorced from her high school boyfriend, whom she’d married right after college, and was now single, living with a new musician boyfriend. Kacey told her that she and JC had split and she was living in Grizzly Falls.

  “About time you got rid of Mr. Know-It-All,” Riza said. “I never liked him.”

  “Maybe you should have told me.”

  “You wouldn’t have listened.” And that was probably true, Kacey decided. “So what’s this all about?” Riza asked. “You didn’t just call me out of the blue. There must be a reason.”

  “Well . . . yeah . . .” Kacey got down to it. “Look, Riza, I need some help. Several women have died up here, and a couple of them were born in Helena, at Valley Hospital, which I think closed about twenty or twenty-five years ago. I wanted to find out if there were others. Women ... well, I think only women, who were born between thirty-one and, oh, probably like thirty-eight years ago at the hospital who are now deceased.”

  “You know I only have access to Montana records.”

  “I’m willing to start there.”

  “It’s all public record,” Riza said, “but I can speed through the process for you. I shouldn’t get into too much trouble, but you never know. People are touchy around here, and there are fees for everything.”

  “Does it help that I’m a doctor?”

  “Yeah. It means you can probably afford all this.” She chuckled to herself, then asked for Kacey’s e-mail. “I’ll have you know this is highly irregular. That’s what my boss is gonna say if she gets wind of it. Nearly everything I do she considers irregular, so let’s keep it between us. And don’t worry about the fees.... I think I can bury them, too.”

  “No wonder the state’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah, right.” They talked a little more; then Riza promised to get her the information she needed, if she could.

  “Step one,” she told Bonzi, then leaned back in her desk chair, stretching her spine and neck. “Maybe we should go for a walk in the park,” she said. “Go get your leash.”

  He had been lying on his dog bed, but at hearing the word walk, he was instantly on all four feet and trotting to the back door.

  He sat glued to his desk chair, his earphones firmly over his head, his heart starting to beat out of control. Already Acacia was becoming suspicious, checking birth and death certificates. Though he could monitor her at home and at her clinic, he couldn’t anticipate all her moves or what she might be thinking. It was only a matter of time before she had an idea of what he was doing.

  She could ruin everything!

  And there was still so much to do!

  He’d heard that she’d gotten herself a dog, and that bothered him. Sneaking in and out of her place, though he’d done it only a couple of times, would now be much more difficult.

  Just one more problem to be worked out. Nothing serious.

  He could handle it.

  He could, he reminded himself, handle anything.

  But this ... her linking the deaths. He couldn’t allow it.

  He ripped off the headset and stared at the death wall, the large area where he’d recently carefully pinned all those shots of the Unknowings. Some of them showed their surprise when they realized they’d been duped. Others displayed horror and fear as they caught on that they were taking their last breaths, and a few, like Elle Alexander, where the death had been from a distance, were only a blurry photo. He’d taken time to snap a quick shot on his cell phone before driving away and over the bridge, catching the minivan sinking into the water.

  So many years of work.

  So much time invested.

  Almost finished ... and now she was going to ruin it? No fucking way!

  Furious, he kicked a trash can and sent it reeling, the plastic buckling as it bounced off a wall and spilled its contents of papers that he had intended to burn, empty cartons, and a burned-out lightbulb onto the slick tile floor.

  He had to do something.

  He had to stop her.

  His cell phone jangled, and he gnashed his teeth, seeing on the screen that it was his damned sister. She called at the most inopportune moments. It was almost as if she could see him, read his frustration, and had to let him know it.

  She’s only trying to help you fit in. You should be thankful.

  He wasn’t. Because every single person in his family realized he would never be like the rest of them. He couldn’t. From the beginning he was different, and they all knew it.

  In the mirror he caught his reflection, handsome, but no longer calm, his face flushed, the white scar at his temple seeming to pulse with his frenzy.

  So like the rest of them, but so different.

  How could he have let this happen?

  The phone rang again.

  Calm down. Take the call. . . . Sister is an ally, though she may not know it.

  He tried to force h
is blood pressure into the normal range.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” She was breathless as usual, probably dealing with “that moron of a contractor,” which was her usual excuse for being in a bad mood.

  “Something up?” He didn’t want to pressure her, but he didn’t have time for idle chitchat.

  “A lot, actually. It’s Mom and Dad. . . . They ... are resistant to change, and, well, you know that Dad’s not as strong as he once was, and Mom isn’t about to move or put him in an assisted-care place, but he needs more care than she can give. . . .” She went on and on, as she always did about this particular topic, one that made his blood run cold.

  She was lamenting their parents’ stubborn streak when he broke in. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Talk to Mom.”

  “I have.”

  “Again. Be firm. She listens to you, for whatever reason. You’d think since I’m the oldest, my opinion would carry some weight, but oh, no—”

  “I will,” he said, cutting off the next part of her no-one-values-my-opinion pity party. “I’ll drive over ... by this weekend.”

  “The sooner, the better.”

  “I have a life, you know. A job. A highly stressful job.”

  “Okay, okay, just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, and a final warning. Mom has someone picked out for you.” He inwardly groaned. “And get this,” his sister added, her voice elevating a fraction in excitement. “It’s a nurse. Can you believe it? After all the things she’s said about that particular profession? I guess she met this woman when she was taking Dad to his annual physical.”

  “It doesn’t matter what she does.” He wasn’t in the mood for a potential romance, especially not someone his meddling mother had discovered. Not when there was just so much to do.

  “Just be prepared. Her name is Karalee Rierson, a redhead.”

  He froze. The little worry that had been with him since he’d overheard Acacia’s phone call was growing, squirming, wriggling through his brain. He glanced down at the pile of photographs he’d collected over the years, spreading them out until he saw the driver’s license picture of Karalee Winters. No . . . it couldn’t be! He swallowed hard, started searching through the old documents. He should remember this. Wasn’t her maiden name Karalee Falcone . . . Yes, he found it. “What do you know about her?” he asked in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

  “I think she lived in Oregon when she was married, but I’m not sure. And then there was something about a brief, like ten-minute marriage, which Mom will gloss over.”

  Hence the surname of Winters.

  “But she doesn’t have any kids. I’m sure Mom will have all the details and will regale you with them when you see her.”

  His stomach seemed to drop to the cold tile floor. Everything was crumbling apart. “No doubt,” he said. “Look, I’ve got to run.”

  “Okay, okay. Always busy, I get it. But after you see Mom and Dad and convince them to move, give me a call.”

  “I will,” he promised and hung up. He stared at the photo of Karalee Falcone Winters Rierson. He’d messed up. Somehow missed that important tidbit of information. And now she knew his parents ... so, so dangerous. He crushed the copy of her driver’s license in his fist and told himself he had to up his game, move faster.

  And he’d have to start with Acacia freakin’ Lambert, then zero in on Karalee, with all her last names.

  He didn’t have a choice.

  CHAPTER 22

  Not only had Riza come through, but Kacey had gotten some information from the hospitals as well. Armed with her new, sketchy details, she drove to Helena. Riza, who also had a way to get into the DMV files, promised more information to come, birth and death notices, pictures, whatever she could find. “I could get fired,” she warned Kacey.

  “Or we might both end up looking for a good defense attorney.”

  She barked out a laugh. “Doesn’t matter. I love this stuff. I watch CSI and Bones and all those crime shows. I’ll see what I can come up with, but just keep everything on the down low.”

  “I will,” Kacey promised but wondered how long she could keep that vow. She hung up and started to dial again, then replaced the receiver, figuring another phone call with her mother would be useless. Whether she liked it or not, she had to see Maribelle face-to-face.

  It was nearly dusk when she cruised into Helena, down familiar streets where the asphalt was bare, the sidewalks shoveled, and new snow was falling softly. She guided her Ford past the Cathedral of St. Helena, its Gothic facade bathed in lamplight. Twin spires rose, seeming to pierce the darkening sky. This was the town in which she’d grown up, where she’d felt secure, and now, with twilight lurking, she felt somehow betrayed by it. Something wasn’t right.

  Glancing into her rearview mirror, she got a jolt when she saw a dark truck, one similar to the pickup that had hit her and sent her spinning a few days earlier.

  The huge, weird grille was similar, but she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the license plate, not even to note if it was from Montana or somewhere else. Her throat went dry as she watched the vehicle’s reflection in the mirror, and then she let out a sigh of relief when it turned, heading off in the opposite direction.

  Don’t be so paranoid.

  No one’s following you.

  Just because Elle Alexander was forced off the road according to the latest reports, you’re not a target.

  “Yet,” she said, still nervous.

  With a final glance telling her there was no truck with a massive grille tailing her, she relaxed a little. Before she headed out of town, she took one more side trip, slowing for a stoplight near Valley Hospital, a few blocks off Broadway. The sprawling glass and steel structure rose four stories, its windows reflecting the city lights as they winked on. As the light changed and she stepped on the gas, Kacey wondered what part Valley Hospital, where at least three women who resembled each other had been born, played in her own private mystery.

  She would have to follow up on that later, however, she thought as she drove through the heart of the city and on toward Rolling Hills Senior Estates, where Maribelle and all her lies resided.

  Trace had waited for Eli to get off the bus, then had driven him into town, where they picked up Sarge, complete with one of those cone things to keep him from licking his wound or tearing out his stitches. The dog was improving, thank God.

  “He looks like an alien!” Eli said as he scared up a smile for the dog, and Sarge, running on three legs, nearly knocked the boy down in the reception area of the vet’s office.

  “Now you both have extra equipment on,” Trace teased, lifting an eyebrow at Eli’s blue cast. There were a few names scrawled on the surface and some grime near the edge that he hadn’t been able to scrub off.

  “I’d say it was a raccoon, maybe more than one,” Jordan Eagle said as Trace paid the bill.

  “I’m just glad he’s going to be okay,” Trace said. “Thank you.”

  Jordan patted Sarge’s head and then Trace whistled for him and the dog raced after them in his ungainly way. Trace helped him into the truck, and they were on their way.

  At the house, though his spirits had lifted upon retrieving Sarge, Eli crashed on the couch. He’d complained of feeling crummy from the minute he’d gotten off the bus, and though usually he was up for doing the afternoon chores, today he was spent. He fell asleep on the couch almost instantly, with Sarge curled up on the floor at his feet.

  It was a bit of a worry as the boy was usually so active, but then he was still fighting the cold or flu or whatever it was, dealing with Jocelyn’s death, and healing from the playground incident. At least he hadn’t brought up Leanna for a few days.

  Maybe the couch wasn’t such a bad idea.

  He let the kid sleep, but Sarge did deign to come with Trace for the afternoon rounds of feeding. He’d let the animals out during the day, but now, as the sky began to darken, he
fed and locked them inside.

  By the time he returned to the house and scrounged up a skillet dinner, Eli was awake. They ate in the kitchen, but Eli picked at his food and ignored the apple juice his father had poured and insisted he drink.

  Afterward Trace stacked the dishes in the sink; then together he and Eli tackled a little bit of homework. They gave up when Eli, coughing and listless, just wanted to go back to the television. Trace took his son’s temperature, which was still hovering around a hundred. He ran him through the shower, then allowed him a soda with no caffeine and put him to bed. The boy didn’t protest, even though the digital clock on the bedside table read 7:15. Usually Eli would have protested loudly. Tonight he zonked.

  It was definitely a worry.

  And his son’s health was just one issue, one of many.

  It wasn’t until he’d returned to the downstairs that he noticed the light flashing on the answering machine.

  Listening to the one call, he heard Kacey’s voice as she asked about Eli. “Nice,” he thought aloud and played the message a second time, as much to hear her voice as to commit her number to memory. He thought about calling her just to talk, but as he picked up the phone, he stopped.

  What are you going to talk about? The weather? Your kid’s blue cast? The woman you dated, the one that looks like her? Jocelyn’s death? Or are you going to admit to dreaming about her last night and waking up hard as hell?

  He thought of Leanna. And Jocelyn.

  Then put the receiver back.

  “Acacia! What in the world are you doing here?” her mother asked, a hand flying to her chest.

  Maribelle had opened the door to the hallway and, from her expression, clearly hadn’t expected to find her daughter waiting for her on the other side.

  “I thought we needed to talk.”

  “And the phone wasn’t good enough?” Maribelle’s voice was cautious as she stepped out of the entry. She allowed Kacey into the inner sanctum of her three-bedroom unit, but Kacey defitely felt the chill: she wasn’t welcome.