by Lisa Jackson
“I’ve got something.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I’ve really got something,” Alvarez told her. “Can you get back to the station?”
“I have a lot of screaming left to do here,” she said abruptly. “A lot of screaming,” she yelled loudly to someone or someones on her end.
“Make it quick screaming,” Alvarez told her, then clicked off, her mind already spinning ahead.
Could all these women—these victims—have been conceived at the same fertility clinic? Could their mothers have all used the same sperm donor? Donor 727?
But what did that mean? Even if it was true, what did that mean? Why were they dying? Why were they being killed?
If...
If they were being killed.
But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? There’s something here. You know there’s something here. Whether Pescoli believes you or not.
She grabbed up her phone and called the lab, annoyed when she was given the runaround. Hanging up with them, she called Ashley Tang direct and said, “I need some DNA results yesterday. Isn’t there someone at the lab you can lean on?”
The forensic investigator answered, “They’re getting to it. You know how it is.”
“I don’t care how it is! I need answers.”
“Well, I’ve got one for you. Not DNA, but an explanation of sorts.”
“Hit me.”
“The poison found in Jocelyn Wallis’s system? We believe it was administered in the coffee grounds.”
“Put there on purpose? It wasn’t something picked up by mistake, somehow.”
“Most likely it was deliberate.”
“Was it meant to kill her?”
“Doesn’t look like it. The dosage was too small at this point, but then, there might be a lot more left in the coffee. We haven’t tested it yet.”
Alvarez jumped ahead to Kacey Lambert. The microphones. Maybe Jocelyn had been bugged, too? But the killer removed them before her place was examined?
“I’m going to check some other coffee, too,” Alvarez said. “Thanks. I’ll get it to you.”
This time when she hung up, she could feel her pulse racing and her breathing was rapid. Was Dr. Lambert in a killer’s sights?
It sure felt that way.
“Pescoli. Get back here!” she said aloud.
“You always overreact,” Jeremy declared, glaring at her from the couch. He held up his phone. “It’s just a picture. There’s nothing wrong with it!”
“If Heidi’s dad saw it, I don’t think he’d agree,” Pescoli responded.
“You showed it to him!”
“How could I show it to him? It’s on your phone. But he knows about it. Pay attention here. Sending pictures like that over the Internet is not a good idea.”
“There’s nothing illegal about it. Nothing!”
“You’re putting words in my mouth. I said it’s not a good idea. Period.”
“It’s just on my phone. Mine. Which you looked at without asking. That’s an invasion of privacy!”
“Invasion of privacy?” Pescoli swept an arm to angrily encompass the mess surrounding her, the detritus from Jeremy’s video gaming: empty soda cups, a plate with the remnants of his cheese sandwich, or maybe Bianca’s—that had yet to be determined—several pairs of his shoes scattered haphazardly over the floor. “Everything you do is an invasion of privacy these days.”
“Fine. I’ll leave.” He stomped across the living room and headed down to his bedroom.
“Praise God. He listens.”
“Mom . . . ?” Bianca’s voice warbled from down the hall. Pescoli walked briskly down the hall and peeked into her daughter’s room, where Bianca lay on the bed, big eyes wide and a little teary. “Why can’t Chris come over?”
“When I’m here. He can come over when I’m here.”
“I want him here now. He brings me water.”
“I’ll get you a glass of water. Did you eat any of your cheese sandwich?”
“What cheese sandwich?”
“Jeremy!” Pescoli yelled, stomping out of Bianca’s room and turning to the stairs that led down to his bedroom.
“I asked her! She said she didn’t want it!” he yelled back up at her.
Pescoli returned to Bianca’s room. She looked at her daughter, buried in the blankets on her bed. “Is there something that sounds good?” she asked her.
“Soup.”
“Campbell’s okay?”
“Chicken noodle.”
As she headed toward the kitchen to whip up this culinary delight, she heard softly, “Thanks, Mom,” and she exhaled a long breath and almost smiled, remembering why she’d had children in the first place.
Thirty minutes later she was back at the station, and Alvarez was just hanging up the phone as she entered the squad room. “What have you got?” Pescoli asked, and her partner told her about the sperm donor theory from top to bottom.
When she finished, Alvarez said, “Well?” and Pescoli nodded, processing.
“Wow,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“I’m working that out. But that’s the connection. The common denominator.”
“If—”
“Pescoli.” Cort Brewster’s voice barked her name as if it tasted bad.
“Brewster,” she responded neutrally, turning her eye his way.
“Come into my office.” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”
“Well, shit,” she muttered under her breath as she followed after the undersheriff.
Brewster didn’t bother to sit at his desk. He stood behind it and Pescoli did likewise, preferring to stand herself.
“I talked to Heidi. She says there are no pictures.”
“Ahh . . .”
“I think she might not be telling the truth,” he admitted. Pescoli lifted her brows. This was a surprise. “It’s no secret I don’t like your son seeing my daughter. He’s a dog in heat, and if I could, I’d bust his ass.”
“You tried that once before,” Pescoli reminded.
“I don’t need an unemployed loser hanging around, and neither does Heidi. He’s a bad influence on her. You and I don’t always see eye to eye, but we have to work together. I’m doing my best to keep things professional. I expect the same from you.” He paused, and when Pescoli didn’t respond, he added, “That’s all.”
She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, annoyed, frustrated, and a little overwhelmed. Not that she’d let Cort Brewster see that. Bastard.
She suddenly ached for Joe. Man, it would be good if he were around. Theirs hadn’t been a perfect marriage; she could admit it had already been fraying when he was killed in the line of duty. But, oh, she could use his level head now in dealing with their son.
And then she thought about Santana. The man she loved. Maybe she should move in with him. What was she waiting for? Her kids to accept him? Ha. That’d be a cold day in hell.
Shaking off her confrontation with Brewster, Pescoli returned to Alvarez’s desk. “Should I call Jocelyn Wallis’s parents and ask them if Dad was a sperm donor?”
“I already left a message,” Alvarez admitted. “Told them to call. But I think it’s time we take this to Grayson.”
Pescoli heard something in Alvarez’s tone that she probably wouldn’t have wanted to be heard. “What’s with you and the sheriff?”
“Not a damn thing,” she responded with uncharacteristic punch.
Grayson was just leaving his office, but upon seeing Alvarez and Pescoli heading straight his way, he stepped back inside and asked, “What?”
“We think the deaths of Elle Alexander and Jocelyn Wallis are connected,” Alvarez said. “And there may be a number of others.”
“Should I sit down?”
“I would advise yes,” Pescoli said dryly.
Twenty minutes later Alvarez had recapped where they were so far, finishing with, “We have a lot of questions, and we’re following up with the relatives of the victims. One
thing. Those victims are all women. Brenda Morris, Elle Alexander’s mother, said both of her children were from Donor Seven-twenty-seven. Her son, Bruce, is in Florida and presumably alive and well. Is he on the list? Or is it only women?”
“The list . . . ,” Grayson said wearily. “That implies there’s more.”
“Maybe a lot more,” Alvarez admitted.
“Every damned Christmas,” Pescoli said. “The season for homicidal nut jobs.”
Grayson’s gaze met Alvarez’s, and Pescoli looked from one to the other. Sturgis, Grayson’s dog, crawled from beneath the sheriff’s desk and stretched and yawned.
“Damn it all,” Grayson said. “Get me some more information. If we’ve got another serial killer on the loose, I’m going to have to call the FBI.”
“We’re meeting one of the look-alikes later today.” Alvarez looked out the window.
“You think she’s on ‘the list’?” Grayson asked.
Alvarez looked at Pescoli, and Pescoli looked back at her.
“Yeah,” Alvarez said. “I do.”
CHAPTER 30
The boardroom was decorated no differently than the rest of the building. A sea of the same industrial-grade carpet was crowned by a long glass-topped table that was surrounded by ten black leather chairs. On one wall was a slim, low cabinet, above which a bronze sculpture of flying geese had been hung. Two other interior walls were of glass, with shades, pulled down, while the only exterior wall was all windows with another commanding view of the surrounding mountains. This part of the building projected over the sloping earth, so that those inside the boardroom had the feeling that they were on the second level, as the ground below fell away dramatically and leveled off at another pond, where snow was gathering on the frozen surface.
If the muted colors and dramatic view were offered to inspire calm or peace, that aura was shattered as Gerald Johnson’s offspring entered and joined Kacey, Clarissa, and their father around the table. A few glances were cast in Kacey’s direction, and though some were curious, none seemed surprised.
No doubt Clarissa had warned them all. She sat in a chair directly to her father’s right, like the apostle John in da Vinci’s The Last Supper. She opened her computer case and pulled out her laptop, just as if this were a regular business meeting and she were about to take notes or share information she’d gathered.
She glanced at Kacey, seated across the table from her, and there was more than a glint of displeasure in her gaze. Well, yeah. She was the epitome of the bitchy, take-charge firstborn, and a few moments with Kacey earlier weren’t going to change any of that. Clarissa’s short hair wasn’t just near black; it was streaked with an underlying tone somewhere between bloodred and purple, a little more hip than her choice of black suit and knee-length skirt.
Before a word was exchanged, two men stepped into the room, one before the other: the twins, who’d been out of the office, had arrived. They were dressed in slacks, dress shirts, and sports coats. The first, hair unkempt and sporting a five o’clock shadow across his boxy jaw, came up and offered Kacey a warm smile. His nose wasn’t quite straight, as if it had been broken at least once, possibly twice. “Colt Johnson,” he said, as if he were getting ready to go into a sales pitch. “I hear you’re our long-lost sister.”
“Not exactly,” Clarissa said, but he ignored her.
With his trademark blue eyes and slightly wavy hair, he looked a lot like the old man, just a little more refined; the sharper features he’d received from his mother. “Don’t let Clarrie get to you,” he warned, and she let out a snort of disgust as he grinned, showing off the hint of a dimple.
“I’m Kacey Lambert.” She shook his hand.
Colt lifted a thick eyebrow. “Well, Kacey, you’ve found yourself one helluva family.”
“Have I?”
“Oh, yeah.” Colt took a seat next to Kacey as the second twin, right on the heels of the first, introduced himself to her as Cameron. Though he looked exactly like Colt, he’d just shaved and his hair was neatly in place.
“Just for the record, I’m the smarter twin,” he said, and his brother barked out a laugh.
Clarissa’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t really funny.”
“Sure it is,” Colt said. “It’s a goddamned sideshow. Welcome to the Johnson family circus.”
Cameron half smiled and nodded.
Clarissa’s mouth thinned.
“Having fun yet?” Cameron asked, but not just to Kacey; his remark seemed to be directed at everyone.
Gerald shook his head. “Just take a seat,” he suggested. Cameron slid into a chair one seat away from Clarissa and directly across from Colt, just as the fourth sibling arrived.
Judd.
She recognized him from the pictures she’d seen.
He was the tallest so far, his shoulders broader than either of the twins’. While they were built like baseball players, he had the physique of a star quarterback. His hair was neat, so black as to be blue; his face clean-shaven. He wore a black business suit, crisp white shirt, and looked every bit the corporate lawyer, though she did note his tie was loosened slightly. When he looked at her, there was a restlessness to his gaze, an edge, and his eyes were a startling shade of blue.
Gerald said, “Judd, this is—”
“Acacia. I know.” He shook her hand. Much more serious than either of the twins, he said quietly, “I guess I’m supposed to welcome you to the family, but I’m not really sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Yeah?”
One side of his mouth lifted laconically. “You’ll see,” he said, taking a seat to his father’s left.
Gerald checked his watch and looked at his daughter. “Did anyone get the word to Robert?” he asked, but before Clarissa could answer, the door opened again, and a man Kacey didn’t recognize rushed inside.
Obviously the missing Robert Lindley.
Gerald made a quick introduction. “Robert, this is Acacia Lambert. She’s your half sister.”
“I heard.” Robert nodded at her before sliding into a seat next to Clarissa, and though he did resemble his half siblings, there wasn’t a hint of the refinement to his features that was evident in most of Noreen Johnson’s children. Robert’s forehead was larger, more pronounced, his hairline receding slightly, though there wasn’t any gray in the coffee brown of his hair. His eyes were blue, too, that family brand evident, but his nose was a little broader than those of his half brothers, his eyebrows thicker and more pronounced, his skin a little paler. His physique was more like Judd’s than the twins’. He was tall and thick-muscled, as if he worked out whenever possible.
“Where’s Thane?” Gerald asked, clearly anxious to get the meeting under way.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I left a message on his cell,” Robert said.
“He was here,” Judd said. “I saw him less than ten minutes ago, locking his car in the lot.”
“He’ll show up when he shows up.” Clarissa was obviously fed up with her younger brother’s antics. “Let’s get down to it. As you know, Acacia Lambert”—she motioned to Kacey—“is our half sister. Her mother is Maribelle Collins, and until recently, she claims she didn’t realize our father was the same as hers.”
“I think I should handle this, Clarissa,” Gerald interrupted. To the group at large, he explained about his affair with Kacey’s mother, revealing that he knew about Kacey and applauded her decision to become a doctor, even admitting to knowing her ex-husband, the noted heart surgeon J. C. Lambert. All of the information made Kacey squirm inside, especially the surprise about her ex, but she forced an impassive expression, though everyone around her was growing more and more tense. Gerald apologized to his children and swore he would make it right with their mother, though he didn’t obviously include Janet Lindley, Robert’s mother, in the mix of baring his soul and offering up his regrets.
It was odd listening to him, and Kacey wondered how much was heartfelt, how much was an act. All of them appeared to be reini
ng in their emotions, Kacey included, showing only a passive expression while her insides were roiling with anger for a man she’d never known existed until a few days earlier.
“And Acacia didn’t just come here to let me know that she’d found me, and you as her siblings. She’s got another concern.” His face tightened as he withdrew the pictures of the dead women from his pocket and slid them onto the table. “These women all look alike. In fact they look quite a bit like Acacia, and some of their facial characteristics are similar to yours as well.
“Acacia believes these women, too, might be your half siblings and intends to prove it. I want you all to know, this could be technically true, though there were no other affairs during my marriage to your mother. Yes, I had girlfriends before I married, but because of the ages of these women, it’s likely, if I’m proven to be their father, that it’s the result of my donation to a local sperm bank.”
His children, already primed by Clarissa, showed very little shock at his statement, and when he explained further, none seemed to care at all. It was only when he brought up the fact that Shelly Bonaventure, Jocelyn Wallis, and Elle Alexander might have been murdered that their backs straightened, their eyebrows lifted, their jaws tightened.
Kacey took stock of all the changes in expression but found none that indicated they were privy to the information prior to today.
Clarissa suddenly held up a manicured hand as if she were stopping traffic. “Does she . . . do you,” she corrected, focusing those blue eyes across the table, her gaze boring into Kacey’s, “do you have some kind of weird theory about this? That some bastard, some killer, as yet unknown, is taking out a bunch of turkey-baster kids? Maybe my dad’s turkey-baster kids?”
“Clarissa!” Gerald said through his teeth.
Before Kacey could respond, the door to the room was pushed open and Thane, the missing son, strode in. He was built like Judd, just not quite as tall, and judging by his body language, he seemed a little less somber. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as if he didn’t mean it, then slid into a chair at the opposite end of the table to his father. Spying Kacey, he said, “You must be Acacia.”