Deserves to Die (11 page)

Jessica’s gut tightened. “You think that the woman found on the ranch is the victim of a serial killer?”

“Maybe. Who knows? Around here you have to go there, whether you want to believe it or not.”

Connie opened the back door and threw the dirty water from her bucket into an area that, beneath the snow, was graveled.

“Watch out! We don’t want that to freeze and end up being slippery as snot,” Misty said. “The last thing I need is to break my leg, or wrench my damn back.”

Connie said, “I tossed the water right where you told me to. Not in the damn parking lot or near the steps. It’s in the effin’ garden. Your idea.”

“Last summer it was, when the temperature was in the eighties.” Misty caught the girl’s angry glare and lifted a hand. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. It’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine.” Connie peeled off her apron and stalked to her locker.

As the locker door slammed, Misty and Jessica walked outside together and Jessica asked the question that had been nagging at her ever since she’d heard the first whisper of a rumor about the victim. “Did you hear that the woman they found on the O’Halleran ranch was mutilated?”

Misty was clicking her lighter to the end of her cigarette. “Mutilated? Shit, no.” Positively stricken, she drew in hard on her filter tip. “Oh, Jesus.” She shook her head as snowflakes caught in her hair. “I didn’t hear that, but I was too busy to pay much attention. You sure about that?”

“No. Just something I overheard.”

“Well, I hope to heaven it’s not true. Mutilated, how?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was talking about it? That new sheriff? I saw you waiting on him. He should be careful about talking in public. That is, if he wants to get elected.”

“No,” Jessica said quickly, remembering the intense look he’d sent her way. “It was the woman who came in about the same time, the one who asked me for a million additions.”

Misty’s eyes narrowed through the smoke. “Oh, God, that’s right. Lois Zenner, she was with her husband. Such a pain. Left you one dollar for a tip, right?” she asked. “One lousy buck. Well, she’s a gossip and a prig and tight as ever, but she does have a niece who works at the department, I think. An underling, but usually Lois’s gossip is right on.”

Jessica’s heart stilled.
That information had come out of the department?

“But mutilated? Christ, what is the world coming to? The sickos sure find us, don’t they?” Misty walked to her car and slid inside as Jessica made her way to her own vehicle. If she were lucky, she could get home and still catch the late-night news.

This has nothing to do with me.

But as she drove away, trying to deny that he had found her again and convince herself that he wasn’t nearby, she couldn’t stop her heart from beating a little faster, nor could she keep her fingers from nervously clenching the wheel. At the first stoplight, she slowed, let the car idle, and eyed the surrounding area nervously. The town was quiet, no one on the streets, no other sets of headlights behind her, no taillights in front. The traffic light blinked an eerie red upon the powdery streets and every muscle in her body was tense.

He’s not here,
she told herself, turning on the radio. Stepping on the gas, listening to Adele’s voice, she wondered if she’d ever feel safe again.

Of course not. Until he’s locked up or dead, you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll never have peace. You know what you have to do, don’t you? Either find a way to send him to prison forever, or kill the son of a bitch.

That thought was unsettling and she checked the rearview mirror often on her drive home. No one followed her, at least no one that she could pinpoint in her mirrors. No tracks of any kind had broken through the snow to her cabin, it seemed, since she’d left.

Good.
She let out a breath and walked inside, found the cabin just as she’d left it. “There’s no place like home,” she said, and wished she had a dog or a cat or even a parakeet. Something living to greet her, something she could talk to. Maybe a dog. One that would guard the place and put up a ruckus if anyone was lurking outside, one that could smell if an intruder had been inside. She warmed to the idea. Maybe.

After locking the door, Jessica threw her keys onto the scarred coffee table and tried to shake off her case of nerves. She turned on the television, then as it started glowing, the volume low, she double-checked the tiny rooms in the cabin to make certain she was alone. Once she knew the place was secure and the stained shades were drawn, she stoked the fire and space heater, then quickly stripped out of her uniform, body suit, wig, and contacts.

Earlier, she’d cleaned the phone booth–sized shower with liberal amounts of bleach and Pine-Sol though some stains refused to fade. She didn’t care. The tiles were disinfected. She was bone tired and felt the diner’s grease clinging to her skin. She stepped under a weak spray of lukewarm water, then lathered her body and her hair. For a second, she remembered another shower where the hot steam fogged the glass and the wide stall was equipped with multiple sprays and glistening tiles.

“A long time ago,” she said aloud. “Another lifetime.” She rinsed off and cranked hard on the handle. Old pipes groaned as she threw her one towel around her and dried off quickly. Shivering, she reminded herself that giving up creature comforts was a necessity. For now. Until she figured out what to do.

She threw on a pair of sweats, then combed out her hair. When she looked into the mirror, her face washed of makeup, her body no longer laden with extra padding or a wig, dental appliances, contacts, or glasses, she caught a glimpse of her younger self and remembered the woman she’d thought she’d be. She felt a pang in her heart as she remembered her dreams of a career, a marriage, and a family—all dust in the wind—foolish fantasies from a privileged girl who’d naively thought she could be anything she wanted to be, do anything she wanted to do, that success was dependent only on her desire.

That’s where she’d made her mistake, thinking her wants and needs were so damn important.

Now, of course, she knew better.

She walked back to the living room. The television caught the local stations, so she watched while searching the Web, hoping for more information about the body that had been found. She sat on the edge of the couch, her gaze flicking back and forth between the bubble screen of the TV and the laptop’s flat monitor. She was nervous about the discovery but wouldn’t have thought that much about it except for that whispered word
mutilation
, one that caused warning bells to clang wildly in her head. Was he back? Was the dead woman a means to frighten her?

It’s not about you. Remember that. A woman is dead. Killed, possibly. Murdered. It’s just gossip, after all. Unproven. A rumor. Nothing to get upset about.

What are the chances that he’s followed you all the way from New Orleans? You’ve covered your tracks. Relax.

And yet, she couldn’t stop the paranoia that had been chasing her for months. Even now, she walked the perimeter of the small rooms, checking door locks and window latches, then peering through the blinds and the falling snow expecting a dark figure to shift in the shadows or the reflection of eyes to catch in the light.

Shuddering, she walked back to the fire and stoked the flames again, hearing the soft crunch as a log fell apart and sparks glowed brightly. She carried the poker with her to the couch and kept it nearby, within reach if she couldn’t reach the pistol for some reason.

Until this madness ended, she would be forever looking over her shoulder, hiding, worrying that he was out there, bird-dogging her, waiting to strike.

That was the worst part, knowing that he enjoyed her terror, that he got off on it.

No more
, she thought, dragging the sleeping bag around her.
No more.

P
escoli sipped decaf coffee and avoided the lunchroom where there was talk of Grayson’s funeral.

Another two days had passed and Joelle had come alive again, taking the bull by the horns and making plans for the service. It was something to do, to keep her busy. Blackwater was involved as well, along with some higher-ups, but Joelle was coordinating with the family—Grayson’s brothers and two ex-wives. He had no children, but had kept up friendly relations with his first wife, Cara, married to Nolan Banks with whom she had a daughter and a couple of stepkids. Dan Grayson had also been divorced from his second wife, Akina, to whom he’d been wed briefly. She, too, had remarried and had children.

The kicker was that Cara Grayson Banks was a half sister to Hattie Grayson. They shared the same mother, and it seemed, the same fascination with the Grayson brothers.

It was all a little incestuous in Pescoli’s estimation.

She turned her attention to the new case involving the unidentified victim and searched the incoming reports. Jane Doe’s fingerprints weren’t registering, at least not according to the information Pescoli had received. AFIS had reported back on the nine prints that were taken, but the victim’s identity remained a mystery. She was not a known criminal with a record and her prints hadn’t been recorded for any government job, either.

“Great,” Pescoli said, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the desk. Feeling a pang of hunger, she realized she was suddenly starving, despite upchucking in the bathroom before she’d driven to work. That was the trouble. She was either unable to think because she was battling nausea in the morning or so suddenly hungry in the afternoon that eating became priority number one. As if reading her thoughts, her stomach rumbled, and she said, “Quiet,” as if the baby, or her insides, could hear her. Ridiculous. The baby was probably about the size of a kidney bean. She knew. She’d checked on one of those Web sites dedicated to pregnancy, something she’d not been able to do with either of her earlier pregnancies.

Things had changed a lot in the past sixteen plus years, she decided as she found a protein bar in her desk drawer and unwrapped it quickly. Macadamia and white chocolate and billed as “healthy” when she doubted it was all that different from the Snickers candy bar she’d hidden deeper inside that same drawer, for “an emergency.”

Taking a bite, she let out a contented sigh.
I hope you’re satisfied now,
she thought, mentally communicating with the minuscule baby growing inside her. A part of her was worried sick about having a child this late in life, another part was a little giddy at the idea. Three children with three different men. Who woulda thunk? Not exactly brilliant family planning nor how she’d expected her life to play out twenty-odd years ago when she was desperately in love with Joe Strand. But there it was. And damn it, the new little addition to her unconventional family would be worth every gray hair she would undoubtedly grow.

She just had to convince her existing near-grown teenagers of the fact. She tossed her pencil onto the desk and noted that the ring on her finger caught the light. She’d finally decided to wear the diamond Santana had given her. She was going to get some guff from her coworkers.
So what?
She was engaged and that was that. She’d show the kids tonight, not that it would be a big surprise; they’d already had many discussions about moving into the new house and the very real possibility of their mother remarrying.

With one foot out the door, ready to move out and get on with his life, Jeremy hadn’t said too much, but Bianca had thrown a hissy fit, taking the opportunity to turn the whole thing around so that Pescoli’s involvement with Santana was all about her. Pescoli thought about that drama-infused argument at the dinner table.

“You’re only marrying him because Dad’s married to Michelle!” Bianca charged.

“My relationship with Santana has nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, come on, Mom. You’ve been jealous of Michelle from the minute she and Dad started seeing each other.” Bianca reached up and fiddled with the rubber band holding her hair on the top of her head in a curly, seemingly careless knot that Pescoli figured took a minimum of fifteen minutes to create.

“Jealous?” she repeated with a derisive snort as Jeremy had reached for the bowl of spaghetti on the table and spooned out a second huge portion. “I don’t think so.”

That, of course, had been a lie. Any bit of envy she felt for his second wife at the time Lucky had taken up with her had rapidly disappeared. The more she knew Michelle, the less she cared. As for him, Pescoli realized how lucky it was that they’d split. Not that he still didn’t have the ability to push all of her buttons. As long as they were parents, they would always have to deal with each other whether she liked it or not, so she tried to get along with him, even though most of the time she would have preferred to hit him alongside the head with a two-by-four. Not to do any permanent damage. Just hard enough to get his attention.

“Lay off Mom, Bianca.” Jeremy defended her as he pronged two meatballs with a long fork and dumped them unceremoniously onto the mound of pasta on his plate. At their feet, Cisco whined for a treat while Sturgis regarded them from his dog bed in the living room. “She’s entitled to her own life, you know.” From a pitcher on the table, he poured a liberal amount of sauce over his plate while Bianca pursed her lips, her eyes flashing rebelliously as she picked at her dinner.

“Like you have it all figured out,” she muttered.

“More than you.” Jeremy had forked a huge wad of saucy pasta into his mouth, then met her churlish stare with his own as he’d chewed.

“You’re an animal, y’know?” she declared.

He shrugged.

“Enough,” Pescoli intervened. “This is dinner time. Family time.”

Bianca’s head snapped up so fast that her oversized bun wobbled. “Right. The three of us.” Using her fork, she made a circular motion to include them all. “We don’t need any more.”

“Tell me that when you want to get married. Or have a kid,” Pescoli rejoined, thinking of the baby again. “Or Jeremy does. Families evolve, Bianca. That’s why we count Michelle as part of ours. And now Santana will be.”

“Awesome,” Bianca said sarcastically. “So what if Jeremy and Heidi get married? Huh? What about that kind of evolution? Will she be part of the family?”

“They’re broken up and Heidi’s in California,” Pescoli said.

“Like that means anything,” Bianca muttered.

Pescoli’s gaze flew to Jeremy, who was suddenly paying his undivided attention to slicing a meatball. “Right, Jeremy? You and Heidi aren’t together anymore.”

“We’re friends,” he mumbled, not meeting his mother’s eyes. “She’s in California,” was his unsatisfactory answer.

Pescoli saw Bianca’s smirk and wondered what she’d missed.

Thinking her mother wasn’t looking, Bianca slid part of a meatball from her plate toward the floor where Cisco gobbled it up. “Heidi’s thinking about coming back to Montana to go to college after she graduates high school in San Leandro.”

“Is that true?” Pescoli asked as Sturgis stretched out of his bed and wandered over to the dining area.

Jeremy dropped his fork and glared at his sister. “Maybe.”

“Hasn’t she applied to University of Montana?” Bianca put in sweetly.

Pescoli’s stomach lurched. “Jer?”

Jeremy snapped, “Pre-applied.”

“What does that mean?” Pescoli asked.

“It’s an option. That’s all. She’s still got family here. One of her sisters is going there.” Jeremy tried hard to act as if nothing was the least bit out of place.

Pescoli tried to sort out what it all meant. She’d hoped that Heidi Brewster was out of her son’s life. Beautiful and manipulative, Heidi had twisted Jeremy around her little finger for the past several years. When the decision was made to move from Montana to California, Pescoli had prayed that the two teenagers’ fascination with each other would fade away.

“Why didn’t I know about this?” she asked, only vaguely aware that Sturgis had seated himself next to her chair.

Jeremy turned to face her. “Because I knew you’d freak, Mom, and it looks like I was right.”

“I’m not freaking.”

“Don’t worry,” Bianca interjected. “Jeremy and Heidi aren’t married . . . yet. They just can’t stand to be away from each other. Besides, it’s not really a big deal. Families evolve, you know.”

Pescoli had wanted to wipe the “gotcha” grin off her daughter’s face and send her to her room. Instead, she’d forced herself to remain calm. “Glad you understand. So, Santana and I are getting married and we’re all going to move to the new house. Better start thinking about what you want to pack. And please, don’t feed Cisco from the table. It makes him worse. Look, even Sturgis is getting into the act.” At the mention of his name, Sturgis wagged his tail.

Like the lingering scents of garlic and tomato sauce from last night’s dinner, the argument still hung in the air. This morning, Pescoli had left the house before either kid had bothered to get up and thrown herself into her work rather than dwell on the problems with her ever-growing family.

Heidi Brewster? Her daughter-in-law?
No way.
Angry at the thought, she bit into the energy bar. As she plopped the last bit into her mouth, she heard rapid footsteps in the hallway and Alvarez nearly slid into her office.

Pescoli looked up sharply.

“Taj might have something,” Alvarez said. “Possible ID on our Jane Doe.”

“About damn time.” Pescoli tossed the wrapper into the trash can near her desk and was out of her chair in one swift motion. They needed a break on this one.

In the missing persons department, Taj Nyak was waiting for them. She stood on the other side of a long counter covered in some kind of wood veneer that was popular in the 1970s. An exotic looking African-American woman with features that hinted at some Asian ancestry in her genealogical mix, she flashed them a quick smile. “That was quick.”

Alvarez asked, “What’ve you got?”

Taj turned her computer screen around so that they could see the image thereon, a clear picture of a female who appeared identical to the woman they’d seen in the morgue the day before, the woman found on the creek at the O’Halleran ranch.

“Ladies,” Taj said, “meet Sheree Cantnor.”

I know how to handle death,
Alvarez thought as she sat in the interrogation room.

Dealing with those who had died was all a part of her job. She made her living trying to find justice for the dead. Death was business as usual except in the case of those near to her. Dan Grayson’s death had leveled her, made her question her decision to be a cop, caused her to lose sleep at night. There were no platitudes nor soft words of encouragement that would assuage the pain she felt when she thought of the sheriff and how cruelly and needlessly he’d died. She’d toyed with quitting or transferring to another department, but she’d made this part of Montana her home, had a biological son with whom she’d recently been reunited, and had finally found a steady partner in Dylan O’Keefe, a man who had been in and out of her life for years.

He was back, and she felt centered for the first time in memory. Though the hole in her heart was painful, she had decided she would heal, given enough time and enough work. She worked as a cop because she loved it, and as she eyed the man seated in the interrogation room, she remembered why.

Heat flowed through the air duct overhead, whispering into the room little more than a cubicle. It was warm. Stuffy. A camera mounted in a ceiling corner recorded her conversation with Douglas Pollard, the man who had reported Sheree Cantnor missing. Slouched in the molded plastic chair on the other side of the table, he was sweating, dark circles evident beneath his sleeves, dots of perspiration dotting his high forehead.

Was he sweating from the heat?

Or a case of nerves?

Probably a little of both.

Though he had reported Sheree Cantnor missing, it wasn’t inconceivable that he had killed her. Most violent crimes were committed by someone close, a “loved” one, and so Alvarez handled him carefully and wasn’t going to take his story or his alibi at face value. It happened often enough that the person who murdered the victim, after he or she had come up with a solid alibi, was the one who also reported that their loved one hadn’t come home. It was a tactic to throw off the police and to show innocence, but most of the time, it didn’t work.

“So you and Sheree Cantnor were engaged?” Alvarez was seated at a table across from the distraught man. He was tall with a soft look about him, twenty-six years old with reddish-blond hair that was already starting to recede despite his efforts to comb it forward. His jaw was unshaven, at least for the past few days, and his eyes were a sad brown that matched his uniform. He drove a truck for a local delivery company.

“
Are
engaged. We are engaged.” He frowned. “Do you know something?”

No reason to beat around the bush. “You probably heard that we found a body,” Alvarez said quietly, then pushed a folder across the table.

He eyed it skeptically, not touching it, as if he expected something to jump out at him.

“We’d like you to tell us if you recognize the woman in the picture.”

Biting his lip, he reached forward to flip the folder open. Two pictures of the woman in the morgue were visible. One of her face, the second of the daisy tattoo on her ankle. Pollard’s color drained and his chin wobbled. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head and pushed the folder away. “No . . . no.”

Alvarez suspected his denial was that she was gone, not her identity, so she asked gently, “Is this your fiancée, Mr. Pollard?”

“Yes,” he choked out. “It can’t be true.” He shuddered and when he opened his eyes, they glistened with tears. “Who did this? Huh? Who the fuck did this?”