by Lisa Jackson
“Family emergency.” Clarissa’s lips were tight, but she gathered her things together, zipping her laptop’s case.
Gerald added, “It’ll just be a minute more, Lance.”
Lance? As in the husband Clarissa would “eviscerate” if he was ever caught cheating? That would be quite a feat, Kacey thought, as this man looked tough as nails. Maybe tougher. Like someone who bow hunted and rock climbed and participated in Ironman competitions just for fun. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his large frame and not the hint of a smile in his even features.
Kacey headed to the boardroom closet, where she’d hung her coat. “I’m done,” she said to no one in particular as she slipped her arms through her sleeves. “You can keep those photos,” she said. Lance, eyeing her speculatively, gave her a wide berth as she walked through the door and into the maze of hallways connecting the rooms and buildings of Gerald Johnson’s empire.
It was really just a company, after all, she thought, but the way her siblings acted about it, the corporation could just as well have been called GJ’s Holy Roman Empire rather than G. Johnson, Inc.
She felt slightly tired. Nothing really had been accomplished today, except that now Gerald and his children were more than two-dimensional pictures on the Internet to her; they were real, and she felt as if she understood them a little more, which wasn’t all good.
But at least they now knew of her and of her mission. She’d warned them, though she wasn’t certain any of them were targets. Briefly, she wondered if one of them could be the person who had bugged her house, or possibly even the killer, but it seemed unlikely. Even if the man central to the mystery were Gerald Johnson.
Clarissa was right about one thing; she’d certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest. No telling what would come of it, but she doubted there would be any family ties established.
“What’d you expect?” she asked herself as she walked along the pathway to her car. Her boots sunk into an inch and a half of new snow. Had she really thought she’d be welcomed with open arms? Or that she’d be able to pick out which of Gerald’s biological children was crazy enough to commit murder?
And why would that be?
Or were the individuals she’d left arguing in the conference room targets themselves?
Blaming her sour stomach on a severe case of nerves, she climbed into her SUV, put the Edge into gear, and backed out of her parking space. A few minutes later she called Detective Alvarez and left a message that she was on her way home. Then she phoned Trace and told him the same thing. Then she asked about Eli. Trace said he was coughing, still a little listless, but definitely improving. The neighbor had come over and was “keeping the boy company” while Trace did the chores. When Kacey was assured that all was as well as it could be with Eli, she launched into the tale of where she’d been and whom she’d seen.
When she was finished, Trace said, “I wish you’d told me where you were going. Sounds like a nest of snakes.”
“Vipers,” she corrected, and he chuckled, the sound warming her from the inside out. “I just needed to meet him by myself.” After spending part of the afternoon under the icy scrutiny of her half siblings, it was a relief to be talking to a man who seemed to trust her, care for her.
“Do you want me there tonight?”
“No, I’ll let Detective Alvarez and the rest of them take care of it.”
“I can be there. If Tilly will stay with Eli, I’ll meet you at your house. If you want me to.”
From the background an older woman’s voice yelled, “You don’t have to twist my arm, Trace. It’s time I showed this young’un a thing or two about checkers!”
“I want you to,” Kacey said.
“See you soon,” he said into the phone.
“Okay.” Again her silly heart soared, and again Kacey reminded herself to keep her feet on the ground, her head out of the clouds. Two weeks ago she hadn’t even met Trace O’Halleran or his adorable son.
Two weeks ago her life had been normal. In a rut. Then women who looked like her started dying.
Now, at least, with Trace on her side, she wasn’t fighting this battle alone.
As she turned off of the main highway toward Grizzly Falls, she glanced in her rearview mirror, glad to see no one appeared to be following her through these snowy hills. Turning on the radio, she was relieved to be leaving the sick tangle that was her newfound family far behind.
CHAPTER 31
Calm down.
Pretend nothing’s wrong.
So the bitch went to Gerald? So what?
It was inevitable. As are the police.
And things are only going to get worse when they find the other one….
Glancing down at the screen of his GPS tracking system, he realized that Acacia had driven home from Gerald’s company in Missoula, which was exactly what he’d expected. And yet he couldn’t help but worry, his hands sweating in gloves, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he thought of everything that could go wrong.
He’d been so diligent….
He was on the move again. There was just so much to do, and time was his enemy.
He’d switched license plates on the truck, just in case, putting on the set of stolen Idaho plates.
His windshield wipers wiped off the snow as he thought about yesterday and how he’d surprised another one. She had been cross-country skiing on a trail that was one of her usual haunts. He’d had to wait several days in the empty parking lot, hoping she would appear.
Finally, yesterday, as he’d pretended to be checking his own equipment, the nose of her Honda had appeared. After she’d parked, she’d geared up and he’d offered a hand in greeting as she’d snapped on her skis and taken off.
He’d waited until she was around the bend and through a copse of pine before he’d taken off after her, his strides strong and swift. She was athletic, and he was surprised how long it had taken to catch up to her, but he’d kept her red jacket in his line of vision until she’d started up the incline that ran along the creek.
He’d accelerated then, pushing himself, feeling the cold wind permeate his ski mask as it rattled the trees.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!
His skis skimmed over the thick powder.
He dug his poles into the soft snow with smooth, sure regularity and gained on her.
She was thirty feet ahead of him and gliding through the sparse stands, her skis smooth near the creek bank, the wires from her iPod now visible.
Twenty feet.
Up another short incline. Perfect.
He dug in, pushing harder.
Sweating.
Closing the distance between them.
Ten feet.
Behind his ski mask, he grinned. She hadn’t heard him, didn’t know he was following. So into her music and the beauty of the fresh snow in the wilderness, or some such crap, she skied innocently.
Unaware.
Closer still.
Now the tips of his skis were nearly touching the backs of hers. They were heading into a thicker grove, where birch and pine quivered with the wind. One gnarly pine, with a thick trunk and several broken branches, caught his eye.
Perfect!
As she curved around the bend in the creek, he pulled up beside her. They were skiing two abreast.
She caught a glimpse of him because, just as the tree with its broken branches loomed, she flinched. She turned her head, eyes round in fear, mouth pulled back to scream, as he shoved her.
Hard.
Into the rotting pine.
Now, as he remembered the horror on her face, the sickening sound of her body slamming into the bark, the thud of her head cracking against that jagged, protruding broken branch, he grinned again.
One less Unknowing walking the earth.
And now, he thought, bringing himself up to the minute, he would take care of the one he should have dealt with years before. His scar seemed to throb as the wipers swatted away the snow and some inane Christmas song rolled through
the speakers.
“Three Kings, my ass,” he muttered, and he felt that little zing sizzle through his blood, that spark of anticipation, as he thought of what was to come.
Acacia.
God, he’d like to fuck her. Just to show her what he could do… Then again, he’d settle for killing her. Watching her eyes widen in surprise when she recognized him, seeing her pupils dilate in terror, witnessing her understanding that he would snuff the life from her.
He felt his cock twitch and stiffen. With a moan, he let out his breath slowly, loosening his fingers as they gripped the wheel. He had to park out of sight again and snowshoe in, which was perfect, and the falling snow would make an excellent cover, get rid of his tracks.
Smiling, he drove into the foothills.
He knew just the right spot.
“So that’s it?” Alvarez said into the hands-free device of her cell phone as she drove. “Black paint that you can buy anywhere?”
“Sorry,” Gus said without an ounce of apology in his voice. “It is what it is. And what it is. . is Premium flat black number three-oh-eight. It’s been the same formula for nearly fifteen years.”
They were talking about the paint marks retrieved from Elle Alexander’s van, and instead of the paint that was transferred belonging to a certain make and model of car, it was from a spray paint can, the kind that could be bought all across the country and was used to paint anything from outdoor furniture to model cars or barbecues.
“Great.”
“Hey, I gave you what I had.”
“I know. Thanks, Gus.” She hung up and considered how many stores in the Grizzly Falls area had sold that particular brand in the past fifteen years. Would they get lucky and find someone who had purchased it lately? And what if the paint had been bought in Spokane or Boise or Missoula or who knew where?
At least she had the information on the coffee grounds. Alvarez was alone. Pescoli had received a call from Jeremy just as they were leaving. He’d told her that Chris Schultz was over, so she’d had to head home again. Alvarez had told her not to bother returning, but Pescoli had made it clear she would deal with the matter and show up as soon as she could. It seemed Pescoli had been half annoyed, half glad that Jeremy had decided to rat out his sister’s boyfriend. It was almost a sign of maturity.
Alvarez found Acacia Lambert’s address and turned into the long drive that led to the house, following a couple of sets of fresh tracks. To her unwelcome surprise, Trace O’Halleran was waiting for her as she pulled up beside his truck. The tech crew had already arrived as well, parked to the side of the garage. One of the guys, Rudy, was outside the department-issued van, smoking a cigarette and talking to Trace. Rudy’s partner, Eileen, was inside the vehicle, keeping warm as the van’s engine idled, exhaust fogging in the air.
Alvarez considered Trace. He wasn’t the killer; his alibis had proved that. But he was in this thing up to his sexy eyeballs; she just hadn’t quite figured out how.
Yet.
What was it with him and the women who might just have all been sired by Donor 727?
There was no time like the present to find out.
As she opened the door of her Jeep, she heard another vehicle in the drive and saw the play of headlights in the snow. Seconds later Dr. Acacia Lambert herself had parked her car in the drive, behind Alvarez, and had walked over the mashed snow to the group, just as Eileen climbed out of the van.
They discussed the plan to sweep the house. They were to find the bugs, try to locate the exterior source, but leave everything as it was. Kacey and Trace would talk as if they were the only ones in the house, catch up on the day, while the techs combed each room for listening devices and, perhaps, cameras. Afterward, they would dust for prints.
Clearly Kacey had been hoping the mics would be immediately removed, and Alvarez couldn’t blame her. But she saw the wisdom of keeping them in place, and so they all headed toward the house.
If Trace had made a mistake and there were actually cameras in the house as well, they were screwed and would tip off whoever had bugged the house. Then again, if the guy was nearby, there was a chance he would see them, anyway, and probably figure out they were onto him. Even though the house sat back from the road, he could have an observation point.
They made their way to the back porch but stopped short when a deep-throated dog started barking from within. “Hey, Bonz, it’s me! Hush!” Kacey ordered, but the animal kept up the ruckus until she was inside. Only then did his hackles lower and his tail begin wagging in wide arcs as he happily greeted everyone. Though he looked as if he were aggressive with predominately pit bull genes, he lowered his head like a gentleman and waited to be petted by everyone filing inside.
Kacey let him outside, then fed him near the back door before heading into the den as planned.
While Rudy and Eileen worked, Trace and Kacey turned on several televisions to mask some of the noise, then played their roles in the den.
Alvarez snapped on a pair of latex gloves, collected some of the coffee grounds, as well as the beans still in the canister and grinder, and placed them all in plastic bags. She didn’t expect to find any fingerprints from whoever had planted the bugs, but she believed in being thorough. Who knew? They might get lucky.
Finding the evidence that the creep was targeting Acacia Lambert, playing with her, listening in on her life, went a long way to proving her theory that the deaths were connected. Could Acacia Lambert also be the progeny of Donor 727? Alvarez planned on asking the woman but was waiting till this debugging was over.
While Kacey and Trace played their parts at the computer in the den, the dog curled at Kacey’s feet, Alvarez scratched out a quick question on a pad, then placed it in front of the doctor:
Have you been feeling ill?
Trace O’Halleran frowned, looked from one woman to the other.
Kacey hesitated and frowned. She wrote back: Stomach.
Alvarez wrote back: Maybe poison. Arsenic found in Wallis stomach contents.
“From what?” Kacey mouthed.
Alvarez wrote: In the coffee. Most likely a small dosage.
“Damn it,” Kacey’s voice was barely discernible, probably wouldn’t be picked up on the mic. Her expression turned from concern to anger, and she wrote quickly: We need to talk.
Nodding, Alvarez scribbled back: My car. She then turned up the television to the point that nothing else could be heard and, carrying the coffee, pot, and grinder, all bagged and tagged, walked through the kitchen and outside.
The wind was blowing hard, snow slanting sideways at times, a tree branch banging against one of the gutters on the second story. She unlocked her car and climbed in. Trace and Kacey showed up a few moments later.
“Okay, it’s safe here,” Alvarez said as she turned on the engine and ignored any banter or crackling on the radio. Trace was stretched across the back; Kacey in the passenger bucket seat. Alvarez adjusted the heater, to blow out the condensation, then let the wipers swipe off an accumulation of snow. “I think you may have been poisoned, though probably not more than enough to make you sick. And the reason I think so is because we found traces of arsenic in Jocelyn’s blood. The guy was toying with her. He’d put it into her coffee somehow.”
“Sick bastard,” Trace said.
“You think he put it in my coffee, too?” Kacey asked.
“I’ll find out.”
“I think this ‘sick bastard’ could be related to me,” Kacey said slowly, picking her words.
“How so?” Alvarez asked.
Kacey then, somewhat reluctantly, launched into a story about being the love child of her mother and one Gerald Johnson, a doctor who had invented a certain type of heart stent. She told of her findings that afternoon in Missoula, at Gerald’s place of work, summing up her impressions of him and his children, then dropped the bomb that Gerald Johnson as a medical student had been a sperm donor to a now-defunct clinic.
Alvarez took a long moment, savoring the feeling
of a case breaking wide open. “We were already on the sperm bank angle,” she told Kacey, surprising both her and Trace. “From Elle Alexander’s parents.” Quickly, she recapped what she’d learned, then gazed at Kacey seriously across the dark interior of the car. “But you have to cease and desist. Give me a statement back at the station, then disappear, hide out. At least until we determine if you’re a target and what the story is with Johnson and his kids.”
“One of them is like me. Robert Lindley. His mother was another of Johnson’s mistresses. And another one of his children, a girl named Kathleen, died in her twenties in a skiing accident.”
“Another accident,” Alvarez said.
“You think she was a victim?” Trace asked.
“Maybe.”
“What about his other kids?” Kacey asked. “Kathleen died years ago. And Agatha, when she was eight. The rest of them, as far as I know, haven’t had any brushes with death.”
“That’s just it. As far as you know. For now, though, you have to quit playing detective. It’s too dangerous.” Alvarez was adamant. “It’s our job. We’ll handle it from here.”
“Jesus,” Pescoli muttered, stunned as she knelt on the snow near the corpse, a cross-country skier who had apparently slammed into the snag of a pine tree perched on the banks of the icy creek. Pescoli had been on her way to the Lambert house when she’d gotten the call.
The dead skier was a woman with reddish hair, and though her face was mangled from her crash with the pine and blood had frozen over a shattered cheekbone and eye socket, Pescoli felt a shiver of dread run through her.
The accident victim’s features, though discolored and frozen, were similar to those of Jocelyn Wallis, Elle Alexander, and even Shelly Bonaventure.
“Son of a bitch,” she said as the body was photographed, then bagged and driven to the medical examiner’s van, which was parked in the lower lot, next to the red Honda, which was registered to Karalee Rierson, who lived ten miles east.
What were the chances?
She spent time talking to the couple who had found her, newly married twentysomethings who had been snowshoeing and happened upon the dead body. They’d nearly missed seeing her as she’d been half buried in snow, but the man had caught a glimpse of something red beneath the fresh snow and investigated.