by Lisa Jackson
He didn’t bother correcting her this time, understood that she was baiting him a bit, trying to get a rise. If she kept wanting to call Leanna his wife, fine. “Fire away,” he told them, and as both detectives tossed questions at him, he answered clearly and concisely. When they got to a question about Elle Alexander, he said truthfully, “I’ve never met her. Look, can I sign a statement or something? I’ve been here over an hour. I’ve got things to do, and I’m picking my son up from the hospital.” There was a hesitation, and a look passed between them. “Are you charging me with something? Do I need a lawyer? I’ve told you everything I know.”
Pescoli looked at her watch again, and Alvarez regarded him soberly, as if she were trying to see into his soul.
Even though it wasn’t really his call, Trace added, “Actually, there’s something more you need to know. I’ve been ... seeing Acacia Lambert, the doctor who works at the clinic downtown. You met her at the hospital. She said she called you and told you about the hidden microphones.”
Alvarez reacted, and Pescoli’s interest sharpened as well. “That’s correct,” Alvarez said.
“You might notice that she looks like these women.” He pointed at the small table, where the pictures of Leanna and Jocelyn were still lying faceup. “And also, Shelly Bonaventure, that actress who died recently, as well as Elle Alexander. Kacey had noticed it, and so had I. When I was over at her place last night, we discovered the bugs. There was a little microphone hidden in her den, in her bathroom, and in her bedroom. I didn’t see any in the kitchen and living room, but I could have missed them, I suppose. She was shocked. Someone is listening in on her. She thinks it has to do with this investigation.” He swept a hand over the photos.
Alvarez and Pescoli shared a look; then Pescoli said, “She said she would call us later, after she’d thought it through.”
No wonder they’d called, Trace realized. “The place needs to be swept of those microphones. Either you or me. But as soon as we do that, somebody’s going to know it.”
“You brought up Shelly Bonaventure,” Pescoli said. “She was in L.A.”
“But she’s from around here. Born in Helena. Kacey has a theory that there might be more victims and they all could be related.”
“Related,” Alvarez repeated.
Trace found himself growing impatient. Kicking back his chair, he stood. “I really do have to go. Let Kacey tell you more herself when she calls back.”
“You think she’s off on some wild tangent?” Pescoli asked, and Alvarez’s lips tightened.
“I don’t know about that,” he said truthfully. “But something’s really wrong here, and I’m worried about Kacey.”
“And what about your ex-wife? Are you worried about her?” Alvarez asked.
He made a sound of disgust. “Hell, no. One thing I know about Leanna—she can take care of herself.”
CHAPTER 27
“ O’Halleran’s not our guy,” Pescoli said as she shrugged into her coat and met her partner in the hallway.
“I know.” Alvarez nodded. “It couldn’t be that easy.”
“Never is.”
Together they stepped around a shackled man being shepherded by Trilby Van Droz, one of the road deputies.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say!” the man with stringy hair and half a week’s growth of beard insisted. “I didn’t steal no goddamned truck, and that was my shotgun. I don’t know how that pipe got into the backseat, but it wasn’t mine! I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to pull here!”
“Keep movin’ it,” Trilby said, her voice world-weary.
“Give me a fuckin’ break, will ya?” the guy wheedled. “It’s the holidays.”
“In here!” She opened a door to one of the interrogation rooms. “Merry Christmas!”
Pescoli smothered a smile, which faded as they passed the reception area, where winking lights were strewn around Joelle’s desk and a fir tree, complete with tinsel, lights, and presents tucked beneath its fragrant boughs, actually spun slowly in one corner. “There’s fruitcake in the lunchroom,” Joelle called as they reached the front door. Today an elf was tucked slyly into the platinum strands of her hair. “My great-great-great-grandmother’s recipe!” She offered them a bright smile just as two teenagers swept inside, a gust of arctic wind swirling behind them, along with a wet smack of snow.
“A maniac tried to run me down!” The girl, in braids and huge glasses, was obviously shaken. “Near the Safeway store. He had to be drunk! He just sprayed snow everywhere!”
“He was drivin’ a green Honda. Sweet lowrider, and he came around the corner too fast and slid all over the place,” her companion, a boy in a frayed stocking cap, said. “Everyone saw it.”
“I was in the damned crosswalk! He just took off!”
“Fishtailing,” the boy said, moving his hand from side to side.
“If Lanny hadn’t pulled me out of the way, I’d be dead now!” the girl cried. She was about to hyperventilate, and Pescoli would have stepped in to help, but Joelle was already pushing a tissue box in the girl’s direction and picking up the phone. She made little scooting motions with her fingers, indicating Pescoli and Alvarez could move along.
“Calm down, honey,” Joelle said with a motherly smile as the girl dissolved into tears. “It’ll be okay. Let me get someone to help you.”
Since the situation was under control, Pescoli pushed the door open, felt the sting of the cold air against her face, and walked outside. Alvarez zipped her jacket a little higher and bent her head against the wind and snow as she took a call on her cell.
“Alvarez,” she said, keeping up with Pescoli’s longer strides and blinking away snowflakes.
Pescoli slid on her gloves, then jabbed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat as they walked the three blocks to a small deli to grab sandwiches.
Only a few pedestrians had braved the weather, and traffic was moving slowly along, the chink, chink, chink of chains a different kind of holiday music.
“Okay. Yeah. E-mail would be fine. Thanks!” Alvarez hung up and slid Pescoli a glance. “Shelly Bonaventure’s DNA report. Hayes managed to pull some strings and get it rushed. He’s sending it over.”
“If it means anything.”
“We’ll find out.”
They needed a break, Pescoli thought as they crossed the parking lot of the strip mall where the deli was located. None of the evidence in this case was hanging together. “You think that there’s anything to the talk of Acacia Lambert’s place being bugged?” Pescoli asked.
“Must be something,” Alvarez said.
“I don’t get it. I’m going to have to grab this and go check on the kids.”
“I’m going to work on finding the ex–Mrs. O’Halleran. See what she has to say.”
“Okay. It’ll be interesting to hear why she dumped her kid with O’Halleran and took off, if she really did. So far all we’ve got for it is his word.” She shouldered open the door of the small deli. Warm air and the smells of spices and roasted meat hit Pescoli full force. Her stomach growled as she and Alvarez took their place in line to order their takeout.
It took a while as the older couple ahead of them were in no hurry. The man had trouble hearing; the woman was very concerned about her allergies as they finally settled on a tuna melt and ham on rye. But that wasn’t the end of it. To complicate matters, they had their grandson, a kid of about fourteen who wasn’t in school but was definitely plugged into his music, as he either texted or played a game on his cell phone. For him to grudgingly order a turkey sandwich—“ no tomatoes, no lettuce, no onions, but an extra bag of chips”—and convey that message to his grandmother as he fiddled with his phone and listened to music was excruciating.
Eventually, as customers stacked up behind Alvarez, the patient woman behind the counter got the older couple and their grandson what they wanted, then rang them up. Finally, Pescoli was able to place her order. A chicken spinach salad for Alvarez and some kind of healthy
bottled tea, while Pescoli had a Reuben with extra sauerkraut and a diet cola. They carried lunch back to the station, where they parted ways, Pescoli heading out, while Alvarez ate at her desk, checking her e-mail. The DNA report from Jonas Hayes popped up, so she sent it on to the lab.
An hour later Pescoli returned, and she signaled Alvarez to join her in the lunchroom, where, true to her word, Joelle’s fruitcake stood proudly on a cake stand. About half of it was missing, a few slices had already been cut, and the rest, complete with candied pineapple rings and bright red cherries, was ready to be hacked to pieces and devoured. Crumbs littered the table, where napkins decorated with smiling Santas had been placed.
“So, how was it?” Alvarez asked as Pescoli unwrapped half her sandwich.
“Bianca was sleeping. No Chris Schultz so far, thank God for small favors. Jeremy was playing video games and wanted half of my sandwich.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Not on your life. I ate half there, brought this back. I made a grilled cheese for Bianca and showed him how he could make one for himself. He’ll probably eat hers, but at least she’ll tell me. I gotta do something about that kid.”
Pescoli bit into the Reuben and ignored not only great-great- great-grannie’s cake but also the Christmas decorations and the big sign that Joelle had pinned on the bulletin board. The sign was Joelle’s way of reminding everyone of their Secret Santas and the party she had planned for the week before Christmas. Plenty of time to figure out what special little gift to buy the undersheriff.
Thank God the limit was ten bucks.
Still too much in Pescoli’s opinion.
“DNA report come in?” she asked.
“It’s at the lab. So, we’ll see. Compare it to Jocelyn Wallis’s. I’ve already told them to put a rush on it.”
“And did they tell you to shove it?” Pescoli asked. “They’re pretty busy.”
“They’ll do what they can.”
“You think the doctor’s a potential target?” Pescoli had trouble wrapping her mind around that. “Just because she looks like the others and claims to have been bugged doesn’t connect her.”
“Except for O’Halleran.”
“Back to him.” Pescoli chewed thoughtfully. Some serial killers were known to go after a type. Time and time again, that had proven true. Ted Bundy was a classic case in point. But it was a big leap to think that a killer was after a victim with a certain DNA profile. It was one thing for a wack job to be attracted to long hair or blue eyes or whatever, quite another for him to be looking for women with DNA patterns or common ancestors.
How would a person even go about that? Geez, it was hard enough for the department, with access to a crime lab, to get a DNA profile.
If the DNA was important, then it only made sense that the common ancestry was the key.
“Whether the victims are linked through DNA or an ancestor or whatever, I wonder if we should talk to Grayson about going public.”
Alvarez tried to show no emotion at the mention of their boss. How could she? Like it or not, they worked for the guy, but something wasn’t right there. “I think we should,” she said now. “Talk to Grayson.”
“But it’s iffy,” Pescoli said. So far all they really knew was that someone had been trying to poison Jocelyn Wallis. The other potential victims were an actress in Southern California and a woman whose minivan had slid off the road with a little help, probably by a hit-and-run driver. Nothing concrete to tie the crimes to one killer. Maybe they were getting ahead of themselves. They couldn’t even prove that they had a serial killer in their midst, hadn’t alerted the FBI.
Alvarez eyed the cake and, as if she’d read Pescoli’s mind, said, “I’m checking with other departments, not just statewide. Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California to start. See if they have any recent suspicious deaths where the victim has connections here or to Helena. I’ve also got a call in to Elle Alexander’s parents to find out if she was really born in Idaho.”
“It all sounds kind of thin, doesn’t it?”
Alvarez shook her head, unwilling to be sidetracked. “If Shelly Bonaventure is part of this, then our guy moves around a lot. Could be he has a job that takes him to other parts of the country. If so, there might be a trail of victims. Individual accidents.”
“And if Bonaventure, who the LAPD are still claiming offed herself, isn’t one of our guy’s victims?” Pescoli asked, finishing her sandwich.
Alvarez scowled. “Then we’re back to square one.”
At two o’clock Herbert Long’s wife called to say, with a heavy dose of disgust, that her husband was going to have to cancel his appointment. Kacey, who had been unable to get Dr. Martin Cortez to take the appointment as he was already double-booked, pumped her fist in the air. She could drive to Missoula earlier than planned, and though dark clouds were gathering along the ridge of mountains surrounding the valley, the heavy snowfall had abated, just as Heather had said the forecasters had predicted.
After grabbing a bottle of water from the staff room’s small refrigerator, she donned her coat and headed for her car. She had managed to choke down a tuna sandwich for lunch but had no real appetite. She’d put a call in to Trace, ostensibly to talk about Eli, and learned that he’d talked to the police about the microphones. “I think they’re planning to sweep your house,” he said. “Probably dust for fingerprints.”
“I should remind them about Bonzi.”
“They want you there, too.”
“Good. I’ll call them later.”
She didn’t tell him what she had planned, though it was on the tip of her tongue. But he would try to talk her out of it, or join in, and she really wanted to do this herself.
She’d decided to meet Gerald Johnson face-to-face, see what her newfound dad had to say for himself, and try to figure out why her mother held him in such reverent esteem.
Theirs, it seemed, at least in Maribelle’s nostalgic mind, was an affair that transcended all others, a star-crossed, tragic love story that was equal to or more intense than Antony and Cleopatra, or Romeo and Juliet.
The incredibly pathos-riddled tale of Gerald and Maribelle.
“Give me a break,” she muttered under her breath as she moved her all-wheel drive onto I-90. In her head she mapped out what she might say to the father who, according to Maribelle, had never known she existed.
Great.
Some of her courage seeped away as the tires of her Ford ate up the miles. She’d done her research. All Gerald’s legitimate children lived within fifty miles of their parents. No offspring going to college on the East Coast and putting down roots, or marrying and taking a job in San Francisco or Birmingham or Chicago.
No, all of those who had survived still lived close to Daddy and, she suspected, the fortune he’d amassed. She chastised herself mentally for her suspicions as she reached the city limits of Missoula, but she’d done her research: Gerald Johnson was a very wealthy man.
As she’d gathered information on him, Kacey had also learned that most of his surviving children worked for him. The oldest, Clarissa, had an MBA from Stanford, and she was in charge of marketing. Married, with a couple of kids, she’d been with the company for years. After Clarissa, Gerald had sired two sons in three years, Judd and Thane. Both of them were lawyers: Judd worked for the company, and Thane consulted from his own firm. Neither was married. Then came the twins, Cameron and Colt. Kacey hadn’t found out much about them, but they, too, lived in the area, and she would bet they were on the company payroll in some capacity. The last of Gerald’s children had been the ill-fated Kathleen, who’d died right before her pending marriage.
There had been a few mentions of seven children, however, so Kacey had scoured deeper. When she’d looked through the archived obituaries, she’d discovered an earlier daughter, Agatha-Rae, “Aggie,” who had died at the age of eight from a fall. Agatha-Rae’s birthday was exactly one week before her own, so she and Kacey would have been the same age, had she li
ved. Inwardly, Kacey shuddered and gripped the wheel of her car a little more tightly. No wonder her mother had been vague about Gerald’s children.
Snow was beginning to fall again, and she flipped on her wipers. Using her portable GPS as a guide, she made her way through Missoula, a larger city by Montana standards that lay in a valley near the river and was rimmed in snow-covered mountains. She drove past restaurants and storefronts, and an old lumber mill turned into several individual shops now, and then finally crossed a wide bridge to discover Johnson Industrial Park. Newly shoveled pathways cut through the low-lying buildings and rimmed a series of icy ponds complete with cattails and ducks. The new snowfall was already covering the cement.
Though the structures seemed identical, they looked to be built in pods, each grouping housing a different piece of Gerald Johnson’s empire and connected by breezeways edging several parking lots.
Money, she thought uneasily, easing along the winding road and spying areas marked MANUFACTURING, RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT, TECHNOLOGY, and finally, ADMINISTRATION.
“Bingo,” she whispered as she pulled into a parking spot marked for visitors and cut the engine. Giving herself one quick, final pep talk, she grabbed her briefcase.
Outside, the wind was brisk, carrying tiny, hard snowflakes that caught in her hair and seemed to cut into her cheeks. Quickly, she made her way along the aggregate walkway to the door and stepped inside to a vast reception area where yards of gray, industrial-grade carpet swept across the floor and the white walls were covered with awards and pictures.
A wide counter separated those who were visiting from the sanctum of inner offices, which was visible through an open doorway leading deeper inside.
“May I help you?” a girl in her twenties asked. With a pixielike face and short hair that showed off multiple earrings, she was seated at a desk complete with large computer monitor and little else. Her nameplate said ROXANNE JAMISON.
“I’d like to see Gerald Johnson.”