The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Leanna . . . He ground his teeth together. Acacia had found a lot of the names of the women. Too many!

  And O’Halleran had told her about Leanna.

  Leanna . . . who had left her boy with O’Halleran . . .

  Her boy . . .

  He contemplated that for several moments, calming himself, thinking.

  O’Halleran was already concerned the police would look at him as a suspect. He was already connected to Leanna and Acacia, and it sounded like Jocelyn Wallis as well.

  He wasn’t wrong. Of course he would be a suspect! The rancher was the perfect suspect. O’Halleran could be blamed for all of it. With a little bit of outside help, he would be.

  Someone just had to push things along in the right direction.

  Pescoli drove into the station lot, slid a little in the ice-crusted snow, and swore violently, way out of proportion to the situation. Hearing her words echo back through her mind, she tried very, very hard not to be totally pissed off, at the world in general, and at herself, too.

  Bianca had mono. Mononucleosis. Yep. The kissing disease. And though Pescoli had hoped this affliction might be visited upon her boyfriend as well, no such luck, apparently. Chris was as healthy as a horse and as sticky as Gorilla Glue. Chris, who heretofore had shown no interest whatsoever in hanging around the Pescoli home if Regan was there, now seemed to think it was his life’s mission to take care of Bianca, and he’d planted himself on the property.

  “Go back to school,” Pescoli had told him yesterday, when he’d showed up at noon. He’d left, only to return in the evening and hover around while Bianca basically slept on the couch.

  But even worse, it had been Lucky’s bimbo wife, Michelle, who’d set the wheels in motion by intimating that Bianca hadn’t been herself over the holidays, and didn’t Pescoli think maybe she should see a doctor? Never mind the fact that Pescoli had already been trying her damnedest to get Bianca to the doctor’s office but had run up against a brick wall at even the mention of visiting Dr. Lundell, Bianca’s pediatrician.

  “I’m too old!” Bianca had yelled at her. “I’m fine. Just leave me alone!”

  So, okay, maybe she should have insisted. She’d half believed Bianca had been faking just so she could hang out with Chris. And things were crazy at work, so she’d let it slide. It was no excuse, and she sure as hell felt guilty about it now, but it was the truth. The good news: at least her daughter wasn’t on drugs or suffering from some more serious malaise.

  But Bianca was home sick, and Jeremy was there, too, doing nothing constructive, and Chris would be on their doorstep again the first chance he got.

  She needed to be there, too.

  Pulling back her sleeve with a gloved hand, Pescoli checked her watch. Seven a.m. Maybe she could get a couple of hours in before anyone stirred at home. She planned to work as long as she could, then head home and check on things. It galled her that Michelle had been the one to finally make her force the issue with Bianca. And this after Bianca came back in clothes too raunchy for even a streetwalker—in Pescoli’s unbiased opinion—clothes Michelle had helped her pick out during their trip to the mall. Good. God.

  And then Jeremy, with his video-game playing and no plan to do anything else ...

  She stepped out into unrelenting snow. Huge flakes were falling steadily, and she bent her head as she headed up the steps to the station. Her jaw was tight, her thoughts on her son. What the hell did he think he was doing? She wasn’t going to just have him home doing nothing. Even Lucky wouldn’t be up for that. And if Jeremy didn’t get his butt off the couch and do something soon, Pescoli was going to go postal. The video games that were his lifeblood were this close to being given to charity. She was pretty sure there was some deserving kid out there who would be thrilled with Kill ’Em Dead or Annihilation or The End of the World, or whatever the hell they were called. Something like that. The perfect Christmas stocking stuffers.

  Thinking of Jeremy reminded her of Heidi Brewster, which in turn reminded her of the undersheriff and the fact that she’d drawn Cort Brewster’s name for a Secret Santa gift.

  Stomping snow from her boots, she headed down the still half-darkened hallway toward her desk. She stopped short upon seeing Alvarez already at her workstation, her dark, smoothed hair pulled back tight as she hunched over an area lit by a desk lamp, a small oasis of illumination in an otherwise dimly lit room.

  Pescoli flipped the switch by the door and flooded the place with fluorescent lighting, which buzzed and shook and generally made everything look harsh and unappealing.

  Alvarez glanced up. “You’re in a mood.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She gave Pescoli a look that made her realize she was standing with her feet apart, arms crossed, glaring aggressively into the room.

  “How’s Bianca?” Alvarez asked.

  “Asleep. Hopefully alone, although Chris won’t stay away now that he thinks he’s appointed himself her angel of mercy.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  Pescoli made a rude sound, then brought her partner up to speed on Bianca’s boyfriend’s new desire to be at the Pescoli home 24-7. “Like all of a sudden he’s the concerned parent, and none of the rules apply anymore. And then Jeremy. . . if he isn’t spending time playing some video game where he has to annihilate legions of futuristic zombie robots, he’s sexting Heidi Brewster. I got a real surprise the last time Jeremy left his cell phone just lying around for anyone to pick up. Photos. Of Heidi. If a picture’s worth a thousand words, these are like a whole new vocabulary. Some of Heidi’s are . . . Actually, I don’t even have the words.”

  Alvarez’s dark eyes were wide and staring straight at Pescoli, telegraphing messages.

  “Brewster?” Pescoli said aloud, figuring he must be standing right behind her.

  “You don’t have the words,” he said tautly.

  Pescoli slowly turned on her heel and eyed the undersheriff uneasily. Some of her anger dissipated as she gazed at his stony face. He might not look like it, but she knew he was just barely holding it together, too. “She’s fully clothed,” Pescoli told him, holding up her hands.

  “So, what then?” he challenged.

  “Just a major lip-lock between her and my son,” Pescoli said. “My son, who I’m about to give a boot to the backside. And that’s all I’m saying about that.”

  He opened and shut his mouth several times like a gasping fish, then showed enormous restraint by merely slapping a hand in the air at her and turning away.

  As his footsteps stomped off, Alvarez said, “You didn’t have the words, because Jeremy and Bianca were in a lip-lock?”

  “There was one of her bent forward in one of those poses where she’s looking at the camera and sucking the hell out of a lollipop. A few other similar ones, too.”

  “Maybe you can frame one and give it to Brewster for your Secret Santa gift,” Alvarez suggested.

  “There’s an idea. So, what’s kept you here all night? I’m trying to get out of here early so I can referee at my house.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the case.”

  “Okay.”

  “We haven’t pushed O’Halleran enough. We just accepted his assurances that he and Jocelyn weren’t really dating, but maybe he wasn’t giving us the whole truth.”

  Pescoli rolled that over in her mind. “The guy works pretty much by himself, doesn’t have to clock in anywhere.”

  “Not only was he involved with one victim, but his missing wife looks a lot like the other victims.”

  “So, you want to call him in?” Pescoli asked.

  “I think it’s definitely time for another interview.”

  Pescoli glanced at the clock. “It’s barely seven thirty. What time did you get here?”

  “Couple hours ago. Is that Joelle . . . ?”

  From down the hall they heard a woman’s voice, Joelle’s, singing: “Here comes Suzy Snowflake, dressed in a snow-white gown. Tap, tap, tappin’ at your windowpane, to tel
l you she’s in town.”

  “Did she make that up, or is it really a Christmas carol?” Pescoli asked.

  “I think it’s a Christmas carol.” Alvarez reached for her phone, but it suddenly rang beneath her hand. She threw Pescoli a look, then hit the speaker button and said, “Alvarez.”

  “Detective Alvarez.” A woman’s voice came through. “This is Dr. Kacey Lambert.”

  Alvarez gave Pescoli a “what’s this” look, and Pescoli shook her head. “Yes?”

  “There are microphones, listening devices, planted in my home. I’m not sure why, but it may have something to do with these ... recent accidents.”

  “Microphones?” Alvarez picked out the word that jumped out at her.

  “Tiny ones. Secretive.”

  “You think someone’s bugging you?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “You have an idea who?”

  “No . . .” Her voice grew uncertain, and Pescoli could tell she was already having serious second thoughts about calling them.

  “Can you come by the station?” Alvarez asked. “I’d like some more information.”

  “Maybe later. I’m at St. Bart’s, checking on a patient. I have to go to my clinic. I’ll call later and think about this. I just wanted to let you know.”

  She clicked off and Pescoli repeated, “Microphones?”

  “She sounds pretty rattled.” Alvarez went very still, then motioned to the computer screen where images of the recent victims were displayed. “She kind of looks like them.”

  “Doesn’t everybody,” Pescoli said on a groan.

  “No. But there’s a connection.”

  Joelle’s voice rang out: “If you want to make a snowman, I’ll help you make it, one, two, three. If you want to take a sleigh ride, whee! The ride’s on me.”

  Pescoli covered her eyes with her hands and groaned, and Joelle’s voice said suddenly, “Would you look at that snow!”

  Both Pescoli and Alvarez glanced out the window and watched the flakes fall relentlessly from the sky. Then Alvarez picked up the receiver and put a call in to Trace O’Halleran’s cell phone.

  Kacey tucked her cell phone back in her purse. Now that she’d started that ball rolling, she felt half embarrassed, second-guessing herself. She wasn’t planning on telling the police everything; she didn’t want them getting in the way of her own personal discoveries.

  But the microphones . . . She wanted them out of her house as soon as possible, and she wanted the police to do it.

  Shaking off another frisson down her back, she headed to Eli’s room. Sticking her head inside, she saw that he was sound asleep. She quietly walked in and pulled his chart from the folder at the foot of his bed, then watched his even breathing a moment. Tiptoeing out, she went in search of the floor nurse, who nodded when Kacey said, “Eli O’Halleran’s temperature’s down, and he’s breathing easier.”

  “He’s feeling much better,” the nurse agreed.

  Kacey was relieved. “Good. His father will be here soon, and we’ll get him released.”

  “This flu gets bad fast. We’ve got a few other cases that haven’t turned around as quickly.”

  Kacey commiserated with her for a moment while she wondered if she should stick around and wait for Trace. But with Eli on the mend and her worries about him abated, Kacey decided to head to the clinic. She had a plan formulating inside her head, and she was determined to leave work early today if she possibly could to put it into play. Everything just depended on her afternoon appointment schedule, which had been light the last she’d checked. She hoped that was still the case.

  She called Trace on his cell phone and was sent straight to voice mail; he was probably still doing his chores. Quickly, she gave him Eli’s update and then said she had called the police and told them about the microphones.

  That done, she drove to the clinic, whose parking lot was thick with new snow. Stepping outside, she heard the scrunch, scrunch, scrunch of her boots as she stomped through the thick white powder to the front door. Inside, she met up with Heather, who was brushing snow off the shoulders of her jacket.

  “It’s snowing like a son of a gun out there,” Heather said, wrinkling her nose.

  “I’m going to try to leave early,” Kacey said. “Would you check the afternoon schedule? I don’t think I have much, and maybe I can move some people around.”

  “Because it’s snowing?” Heather asked as she sat down at the reception desk and turned on her computer. “It’s supposed to quit before the afternoon.”

  Not even close, Kacey thought, but said only, “I’ve got some issues to take care of.”

  “Well, you’ve got Herbert Long with a possible sinus infection. His wife said he’d leave work early to come by. Around four, maybe. He didn’t want to come at all.”

  Kacey inwardly groaned. “Maybe Martin can take him.”

  “Maybe. That’s the only appointment holding you up.”

  “Let me know when Martin gets in.”

  Kacey headed into her office. She wanted to confront Gerald Johnson as soon as possible, and that meant a trip to Missoula, which was a quick trip in good weather, a little longer with the white stuff accumulating outside.

  Her mind jumped to the vision of Trace returning to her house from his foray with Bonzi, snow melting in his hair. She recognized something was happening between them, something that could lead to something more.... The idea both thrilled and alarmed her. The man was up to his eyeballs with the look-alikes. Was she an idiot to trust him? Was that what the other victims had done?

  She didn’t believe it. Not for a minute. She trusted her instincts enough to trust Trace, but even so, as she settled into work, she kept running Trace’s involvement with several of the victims through her mind on an endless loop.

  “So you don’t know where your wife is?” the taller detective asked Trace, her eyes never leaving his face. An imposing woman with reddish hair clipped away from her face, she sat on the opposite side of the small, battered table in the small interrogation room at the sheriff’s department. Her expression gave nothing away, but her gaze kept traveling to her watch.

  “Ex-wife, and no,” Trace said emphatically. “I’ve lost touch with Leanna.”

  Trace had driven to the offices at the top of Boxer Bluff to “answer a few questions” after Pescoli’s partner, Alvarez, the shorter Latino woman with the intense dark eyes, had left him a message on his cell phone, asking him to come in.

  He’d gotten that message and one from Kacey in short succession. Kacey’s had been welcome; she’d told him the antibiotics had taken hold and Eli was on the mend, something he’d seen for himself when he’d dropped by the hospital after he’d fed and watered the stock and taken Sarge for a walk outside in the falling snow.

  He’d spent some time with his boy, who did seem much more animated, before speaking with the doctor, who had informed him that Eli would be released in the afternoon, as soon as all the paperwork was finished. It just relieved him to no end, and so he’d made his next stop the police station.

  Upon his arrival, Detective Alvarez had escorted him to this windowless room with its concrete walls, small table, and three molded plastic chairs. After telling him she was recording the session, she’d left, saying she is going to bring them all a cup of coffee, which he assumed was intended to make this seem more like an informal “chat” than a serious interrogation. Fine. He wanted all his cards on the table. And the police to get to the truth. Kacey’s theory that the victims were genetically linked, possibly to her, scared him. It scared him to death.

  Still, he was anxious to get this interview over. He didn’t want Eli staying alone in the hospital any longer than absolutely necessary. He already had some abandonment issues because of Leanna; Trace wasn’t about to compound them by not showing up when he’d promised.

  Alvarez returned with half-filled paper cups and set them on the table. As she sat down, she pulled a slim manila file from a briefcase positioned near her
chair and slid it onto the beat-up table. Trace ignored the steaming coffee but was grateful that its aroma blocked out the stench of sweat and cleaning solvent, as if this room had been scrubbed recently, but it couldn’t quite mask the scent of fear, desperation, and guilt.

  With no holds barred, he told them the story of his brief marriage, losing touch with Leanna, and raising Eli alone. “The marriage was over before it began,” he admitted. “I’m still not even sure she was pregnant. I never saw the test kit results or went to the one appointment with the doctor she’d sworn she’d visited. No bill for the exam ever came through, so maybe I was played.”

  “Why?” Alvarez asked.

  “I suspect she was tired of the responsibility of a kid.” Trace’s insides curdled with the admission, but it was his version of the truth. “Leanna wasn’t the kind of woman cut out to be a mother.”

  “What kind was she?” the taller detective, Pescoli, asked.

  “Beautiful and self-centered. Friendly smile. Cold, though.”

  “Huh,” Pescoli observed before picking up a paper cup and taking a long swallow of the coffee. “You’re her ex.”

  “You asked,” he reminded the detective. “I’m just saying what I think.”

  Alvarez asked, “So about Eli. He’s not your biological son, but she just left him with you? What about the real father?”

  Feeling warm in his coat, Trace unbuttoned it. “It’s my understanding that he was never in the picture. He might not even know about Eli. But the adoption’s legal. He’s my son.”

  Pescoli asked, “What about your ex-wife’s family?”

  “I didn’t meet any of them. We were together less than six months. So, why all the questions about Leanna?”

  But he knew. And it came as no surprise when Pescoli opened the file on the small desk and showed him pictures of Jocelyn Wallis and one of Leanna O’Halleran, the picture she’d had taken for her Montana driver’s license.

  “Since you were the last person Jocelyn Wallis was involved with, and she with you,” Pescoli said, “we just would like to know more about her, as well as your missing wife.”