The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  Kacey held fast to the envelope. “Women are dying. As far as I know, no men have been killed, which is really odd, since Gerald Johnson has fathered a number of males, too.”

  “No one will lose their job or get into serious trouble,” Alvarez promised, and Kacey let go of the envelope.

  “I’m going to have someone get right on this,” Pescoli said and left the room quickly.

  Alvarez continued the interview. When she asked if Kacey had ever felt stalked or if things were strange, Kacey was reminded again of the attack in Seattle and mentioned it. Then she remembered the accident and Grace Perchant’s warning. “This is probably nothing,” she said, “but I was in an accident, or almost an accident. Less than a fender bender. The roads were icy and another car lost control, I had to swerve to miss it, and when I did, I slid into the other lane. A big truck, going the opposite direction, clipped my bumper. It seemed like on purpose. Even though it was obviously my fault, the other driver took off, rather than stop and swap insurance information.”

  Alvarez, who was taking notes, asked, “You didn’t get a look at the driver?”

  “Just a quick glimpse, but other than seeing it was a man with dark hair, no.” Kacey shook her head and, out of her peripheral vision, saw Trace tense, the muscles in his neck tighten. “For the most part, his face was averted. I had the impression I’d seen him before, but ... I couldn’t place him. He did look like some of Gerald Johnson’s sons I met today, but I might be pushing that.”

  Alvarez asked, “Do you know the make or model of the truck?”

  “I was too busy trying to stay on the road. It was big, probably domestic—Chevy or Ford, I think—but I’m not sure. What I did notice was that it had a huge bumper guard of some kind on it, looked like it was steel, but painted black, and even though I didn’t get a good look at the plates, I had a feeling that they weren’t from Montana. One of the numbers was either a three or an eight. Or, maybe it was a B? The back plate was really dirty, and there wasn’t time to get a second look. It all happened in just a few seconds.”

  “Any chance there was some paint transfer? From his vehicle to yours?” Alvarez asked, suddenly more interested.

  “Maybe . . . I saw black marks and a bit of a dent on my bumper.”

  “We’d like to keep your car. Try and get at some of those black marks, see if they’re paint.” Alvarez was all business. “Is there anything else you remember?”

  “Not really ... oh, but, there was a witness,” Kacey said. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  Because it was random. You didn’t really think the accident was connected to anything else. The driver hadn’t intentionally tried to run you down, she thought. Now, though ...

  “Grace Perchant, she was out walking her dog, the one that’s part wolf.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  Grace’s warning ran like blood through Kacey’s brain: You should never speak to him. He is evil. He means you harm. She’d tried to dismiss the pale woman’s message, but it had stuck with her, invaded her dreams.

  “She told me not to try and chase him down, that the driver was ‘evil.’ When I asked her who he was, she couldn’t come up with a name, just that he meant me harm.”

  “Sounds like Grace,” Alvarez said. “We’ll check it out.”

  Fishing in her purse, Kacey came up with her key ring, then removed the key to her Ford and handed it to Alvarez. “I’ll need the car back soon.”

  “Tomorrow,” Alvarez promised, scooting back her chair, indicating the interview was finally over. “And I’ll get hold of Grace Perchant.”

  Trace had listened to most of the interview without saying too much, but as the discussion had worn on, he’d become more and more concerned for Kacey’s safety. After learning that she had possibly been poisoned and then viewing Pescoli’s gruesome pictures of Karalee Rierson, the most recent accident victim, he’d made up his mind.

  As he held the glass door open for her, then followed her outside, he said, “You’re coming to my place.”

  “Oh, I am?” Outside the snow was thick now, still falling, a wind blowing off the mountains. Night had fallen in earnest while they were in the police station. Streetlights glowed, offering a thin blue light to the powdery landscape.

  “You’re sure as hell not going home alone. Dog or no dog.”

  “Yeah?” she asked, but even in the semidarkness, he saw that she was teasing, her eyes a deeper green. Turning the collar of her coat against the wind, she followed a trail of footprints along a footpath leading past a flagpole, where chains rattled and the flags had already been taken down for the night. As Trace jogged to catch up with her, he noticed snowflakes settling onto her shoulders, sparkling like glitter in the dark strands of her hair.

  “I don’t like what’s going on,” he said seriously.

  “Me, neither.”

  “So, no arguments?”

  She studied him for a second. “None from me, but we have to pick up my dog and a few things, and then, in the morning, I’m going to need a way to get to work.”

  “I think I can handle it. My neighbors, Tilly and Ed Zukov, are watching over things at my place until I get back.”

  During Trace’s last conversation Tilly had assured him that Ed had taken care of the horses and cattle and she was already frying chicken. Trace had heard the sizzle of the meat cooking and the blare of the television, as Ed was more than a little hard of hearing. Satisfied that his son was safe and feeling well enough to ask Tilly to bake him brownies, Trace had relaxed a little.

  But his sense of ease had been short-lived as the interview had worn on.

  He didn’t know who was behind the “accidents” of the women who’d died, but the fact that Kacey looked like a target was enough to convince him that she shouldn’t be alone. Someone had gotten into her house without forced entry, had possibly poisoned her, was privy to her private conversations, and knew when she was alone.

  Trace’s back muscles tightened just at the thought of someone listening in.

  Was it possible that the person behind the surveillance equipment was the killer?

  You bet. In Trace’s mind there was no question. None whatsoever. He unlocked the truck, waited as she climbed into the cab, then closed the door.

  She smiled at him through the passenger window, and he felt that now familiar little tug on his heart that he felt whenever he was around her. In another time and place he might think he was falling in love. Right here, right now, he couldn’t even go there. Not while women who looked like her were dying.

  As he slid behind the wheel, she voiced second thoughts. “I don’t know if staying with you is the answer,” she said.

  “Eli would love it.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking about.” She slid a glance his way. “And you know it.”

  He realized suddenly how close the cab of his truck was, how their breaths had fogged the glass. “Yeah.” To break the mood, he flipped on the defrost.

  He jammed the truck into reverse, backed out of the parking spot, then switched gears to drive. Slowing so that he could ease into the steady stream of traffic heading out of the town, he inched forward, feeling her gaze upon him as he slid into a spot behind a flatbed truck with a load of Christmas trees.

  “It’s just that I have to know that you’re safe, okay? So I want you to stay with me.”

  “You want to protect me.”

  “Something like that.”

  She half smiled, and it was about the sexiest gesture he’d ever seen. “You know what, O’Halleran? Maybe I’ll end up protecting you. Or something like that.”

  “I want to surprise Gerald Johnson and see what he has to say for himself,” Pescoli said as she and Alvarez walked to her office.

  “Okay. I was doing some research earlier. Let’s follow up some more and then take it to Grayson, so he can contact the FBI.”

  “FBI, my ass,” Pescoli muttered.

  Alvarez grabbed up the information she�
�d already pulled from the Internet, and then she and Pescoli spent time searching for other women born twenty-five to forty years earlier in Helena who’d died accidentally. There was a raft of them, but they chose about a dozen.

  “This is just so bizarre,” Alvarez said.

  “Beyond bizarre. And there are a lot more to sift through. If this is our guy, he sure as hell got around.”

  “Which means he had money and free time.”

  They looked at each other. “One of Gerald Johnson’s kids?” Pescoli asked.

  “Not the youngest. He would have only been six when the first fatal ‘accident’ took place.”

  “Unless the first accidents really are accidents or aren’t our look-alikes . . . These deaths really started piling up around fifteen years ago, about the time the youngest of Johnson’s kids, the twins, were twenty-two, which is about the same time they would have graduated from college if they went.”

  “And ended up on Daddy’s payroll?” Alvarez thought aloud. “But why? And how would whoever it is know where to find the daughters of Seven-twenty-seven?” She grimaced. “Maybe they worked at the clinic while going to college, got the information that way.”

  “Could be. Or even bought the information if they found dear old Dad had made regular deposits to the local sperm bank. You know what they say, ‘Everything has a price.’ That includes personal information.” Pescoli thought of her own son and his fascination with the Internet. She’d worried that he was playing games and wasting time, or perusing porn, but what if he was hacking, breaking into private files? “What do you think? Is anyone in Johnson’s family a computer geek?”

  CHAPTER 33

  The roads were a mess, traffic snarled, the storm relentless as it dumped more snow over northwestern Montana. It took over an hour for Trace and Kacey to collect her dog, computer, and an overnight bag. Trace’s truck slid twice, but he was able to finally reach the old farmhouse he called home.

  She’d never seen it before, this big, square home perched on a bit of hill nearly an eighth of a mile from the county road. Snow was thick on the roof, icicles were dangling from the eaves, and a bitter wind was blowing through the naked trees in a small orchard. Trace pulled into an open garage at the back of the house, where a Dodge pickup, nose facing toward the road, was already parked, three inches of snow piled on its hood. Outbuildings stood in the distance, security lamps offering pale, almost eerie, illumination through the curtain of falling snow.

  As he grabbed Kacey’s overnight bag, he whistled to her dog, opened the driver’s door, and stepped outside. Bonzi scrambled after him, leaping and breaking through nearly a foot of powder, while Kacey hauled her computer case up a path broken through the snow.

  They took three steps up to a broad back porch, where they tromped the snow off their feet, then stepped through an unlocked back door. Heat, and the smell of wood smoke and spices, hit them full force as they removed their coats and the dog explored.

  “Hey there, fella,” a deep male voice from somewhere deeper in the house greeted. “Who the hell are you?” There was a sharp bark, and the same voice said, “Hey, Sarge. Enough! Looks like you’ve got a friend here.” Then a chuckle.

  The kitchen was large enough for a full-sized table, its butcher-block counter pressed up to a wide window overlooking the back porch and the outbuildings beyond.

  “How’s Eli?” Trace asked as he walked through a wide archway into the living area, where a fire burned in the grate and a man and woman were seated in front of a television blasting the news. The woman was knitting; the man had an ear cocked toward the TV set.

  “He just conked out after dinner,” Tilly told Trace as she stuffed a skein of fuzzy yarn into her bag and gave Kacey the once-over. To her husband, she yelled, “Ed, turn that thing down, would ya! I can’t hear myself think!”

  Ed snorted, blinked, and did as he was bid, bringing the noise level down several decibels. A large man, Ed Zukov wouldn’t need anything other than a red suit and fake beard to play Santa Claus.

  Trace made hasty introductions.

  “Nice to meet ya,” Tilly said, but there wasn’t a lot of warmth in her smile. Ed, though, stood and shook Kacey’s hand as if he meant it, then settled back into his corner of the couch, his hands fingering the remote control before it slipped off the sectional’s arm.

  Tilly wasn’t finished giving Trace a report on his son. “Poor little thing was plumb tuckered out. Probably the medication,” Tilly said.

  “I think I’ll look in on him,” Trace said, peeling off his jacket and dashing up a flight of stairs near the front hallway. Sarge and Bonzi followed closely behind.

  “Nice dog,” Ed said. “He yours?”

  “He is now. I just adopted him.”

  Ed’s whitish eyebrows raised. “Guard dog?”

  “Not much.” She smiled.

  “Hunter?” Ed persisted.

  Kacey shook her head. “Bonzi? I doubt it. Probably will never know.”

  As if he’d heard his name, Bonzi came running back down the stairs and bounded past a coffee table, to place his head near the armrest of the couch and Ed’s hand. “Yeah, you’re a good boy,” the man said as Sarge and Trace returned to the living room, too. Sarge, cone surrounding his head, curled up on a rug near the fire.

  “Don’t he look silly?” Ed muttered with a deep-throated chuckle.

  Tilly patted her husband’s jean-clad knee. “We’d better get going. The storm’s only gettin’ worse.”

  Ed struggled to his feet again and pulled a face as he cracked his neck and tried to keep up with his wife, who was walking briskly through the kitchen. “Ain’t gettin’ any younger,” he admitted as they gathered their things, slid into jackets that had been hung on pegs near the back door, and wound hand-knit scarves around their necks.

  Once she was bundled up, Tilly said to Trace, “Now, don’t forget, there’s chicken in the refrigerator, along with mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy.”

  “That would be Tilly’s killer chicken,” Ed said with a grin. He was rewarded for his compliment with a good-hearted swat from his wife.

  “I hate to brag, but he’s right, you know.” Tilly beamed a little. As an aside, she said, “It’s the paprika. The Colonel, he can have his eleven herbs and spices or whatever. Let me tell you, I’ve got paprika!”

  “No one remembers that old herbs and spices thing!” Ed hitched his chin toward Trace and Kacey. “These two, they’re too young. Way too young!” He settled his hat on his head and walked to the porch, where his work boots were waiting.

  “Thanks for watching Eli and feeding the stock,” Trace said.

  “Anytime,” Tilly answered with a smile, though, when her eyes met Kacey’s, the smile faltered a bit. As Ed yanked on his boots, she pulled a stocking cap over her gray hair, then shepherded Trace aside and whispered something to him while she eyed Kacey skeptically.

  “Come on, Mother. Let’s go,” Ed said, opening the door. A blast of cold air swept inside. “Oh, sweet Mary, we’d better get home. I heard on the news there’s gonna be a helluva storm, and for once, it looks like they’re right. You’d better draw some water in the bathtub and the sinks, just in case you lose power here. No reason to be out of water, too.”

  They stepped outside, and the door closed behind them with a bang. Through the window Kacey saw the branches of the trees still dancing wildly. Snow was swirling crazily. Already drifts were piling against the side of the house and the outbuildings.

  Ed was right. It looked to be one helluva storm, even by Montana standards.

  Once the older couple had climbed into their truck and rolled out of the driveway, the taillights of their old Dodge disappearing in the falling snow, Trace locked the back door. Kacey was already removing Tilly’s leftovers from the refrigerator. “Let me guess,” she said, peering over the top of the refrigerator door. “Tilly pulled you aside to give you the word on me, right? I bet she thinks I look a little too much like your ex-wife.”
/>   Trace lifted a shoulder. “And Jocelyn.”

  “Huh.” She kicked the door shut. “Now I’m a type.” Placing the containers of food on the counter, she felt immediate contrition when she thought of Jocelyn Wallis and how she’d died. Realizing she was tired, hungry, and her nerves were strung tight as guy-wires, she said, “Sorry. Guess that’s a little bit of a sore point.”

  “Tilly’s impressed that you’re a doctor.”

  “Well, great.” She cringed at how sharp she sounded. “I think I’m hungrier and grouchier than I thought.”

  “Maybe it’s the arsenic,” he said soberly.

  “No. I’m fine. Even if they find it in the coffee grounds, I haven’t had much coffee at home lately. What about you? You drank some this morning.”

  He shook his head. “Either it’s not there or just not in what you served up today.”

  “That’s something to celebrate, then,” she said fervently.

  “You’re right.” He grinned then, and it made her heart clutch a little. “Here . . . let me heat this up,” he said, reaching for the leftovers.

  “Mind if I check on Eli?”

  “No. Please. Go.”

  Though Trace had looked in on his son the second they’d arrived at the house, it had been half an hour or so ago. Bonzi, who had explored every corner of the downstairs and had checked out Sarge, seemed to want to follow her, but the command “Stay” from her and the smell of chicken kept him in the kitchen with Trace. Sarge, too, had taken up a spot under the table and was watching anxiously, hoping Trace would drop a savory morsel. Kacey hated to think what kind of growling, snarling dogfight might ensue if any chicken hit the floor. “Be good,” she told her dog.

  Kicking her shoes off at the base of the stairs, she hurried up the five steps to the landing, then turned and climbed the rest of the flight to the second story, where an old railing with heavy newel posts prevented anyone from falling down the staircase.

  Eli’s room was tucked under the eaves on one side of the hall, along with a spare room, used, it seemed, for storage. The door to the third bedroom hung ajar, and she pushed it open a little farther, the light from the hallway spilling onto unused furniture, plastic tubs, and stacked boxes.