Deserves to Die: Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli 6 by Lisa Jackson
“She did. As did Gage. But I’d like to hear what you think.” He was staring at her intently, almost as if he were trying to read her mind.
So, he wants a recitation. Fine. “Well, I think we’ve got ourselves another nutcase.” She perched stiffly on the chair she’d occupied so often when Grayson was alive.
Some kind of classical music was playing softly, Blackwater’s computer was at the ready, the monitor glowing with the logo for the department on display, and every book, file, pen, or note pad was placed neatly on the desk or the surrounding cases, his awards mounted precisely on the walls. The whole “neat as a pin” feel gave Pescoli a bad feeling—kind of like Alvarez’s office on steroids. It was all part and parcel of Blackwater’s consistent military style.
“I think the murders are linked. That’s the obvious conclusion, and I think it’s the right one. We’ve got one sick jerk-off who gets his jollies by slicing off the victim’s ring finger. I’ve got no real idea who’s behind the deeds yet.” She almost lost her train of thought, he was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, finally returning to, “The big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we’ll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor’s shoe and Calypso Pope’s bag.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “Not one suspect so far?”
He knew that, too, but apparently wanted her to reiterate. “No. At least not until we identify the print found on Cantnor’s shoe and Pope’s bag. Or, if our killer is dumb enough to try and pawn the rings and give himself away.”
Blackwater picked a pencil out of the holder and leaning back in his chair, fiddled with it. “Odd case.”
“We get our share around here.”
“And then some,” he agreed.
“Must be the water, or the hard winters. Makes people crazy.”
He didn’t so much as crack a smile. So much for a little levity.
“You got anything else?” he asked.
“We’re still looking for a connection between the two women, old schools or boyfriends or friends, even friends of friends, but as near as we can tell at this point, the two victims didn’t know each other.”
“Random?”
“Or possibly each woman knew the killer, but not each other. If this were a TV show, it would turn out that the female victims happened to share the same bad-boy lover who maybe went to prison and hired some lunatic to off them or something like that. So far, we haven’t been lucky enough to find any connection between the victims and Montana’s version of a modern day Jerry Brudos.”
When Blackwater didn’t immediately respond, she elucidated. “The guy in Oregon who had a fetish for shoes and cut off body parts and kept ’em in the freezer. Back in the sixties, I think. My folks told me about it. Our guy has a thing for fingers and rings.”
Listening, Blackwater asked, “You think the killer will strike again? Here?” He pointed to the office floor, but she knew he meant in the general area of Grizzly Falls.
“I would have said ‘probably not’ after the first victim. I mean, who knew what was going on? I thought the Cantnor woman’s killer might just be a pissed off ex-boyfriend. But after Pope that doesn’t make as much sense now. Maybe he’s setting up for another kill, or maybe he was just passing through, did his business here, twice that we know of, then moved on. For all we know, there could be more bodies of earlier victims that have been killed and dumped somewhere else, and not yet discovered.”
“He could have had other victims. Cases before ours.”
“We’re double-checking that, as well as the names of all of the women who’ve gone missing in the past month.”
“Do you think he’s moved on?” Blackwater asked.
Pescoli slowly shook her head. “Just a gut feeling, but no. Our doer seems to know the area pretty well. Either that, or he’s been extremely fortunate, as we can’t find a link between the women, and we have no video footage or pictures of anyone near the victims in their last moments. Somehow, he avoided any cameras on that stretch of the waterfront when he attacked Calypso Pope. The same goes for Sheree Cantnor, yet these days everyone has a camera phone in their purse or pocket. People are always taking pictures and posting them on social media sites. And most businesses keep security cameras running twenty-four seven. So, how’s our guy been so lucky unless he’s really aware of the area?”
As if realizing he was fiddling with the pencil, Blackwater replaced it. “Why the rings? The fingers?”
“Trophies? You know, to relive the moment. Again, like our friend Brudos. Or maybe some kind of personal statement about the rings, or marriage? Maybe both?” She shook her head. “Hard to know what kind of psychosis the doer’s dealing with.”
“You think he’s insane?”
“Without a doubt, but, hey, I’m not giving the killer a defense. I’m just saying he’s not what most of us would call normal.”
Blackwater nodded. “Rings with fingers. A weird fetish.”
“Name a fetish that isn’t abnormal,” she suggested and realized that for the first time since Blackwater had taken over they seemed to be on the same page.
His phone rang and he ended the meeting abruptly with, “Okay. Just wanted your thoughts. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” She rose, then couldn’t help herself from asking, “So, what’s with the push-ups?”
“Keeps the blood flowing. Any kind of exercise. I do something every two hours, makes my brain clearer.”
“Oh.”
“You should try it.”
“I should,” she said equably.
He actually smiled, seeing through her. “And Pescoli?”
“Hmmm?”
“Just for the record, I know what happened. Out in the woods that day when you’d chased down Grayson’s killer.”
“Oh, yeah?” Where is this going?
“I’m glad your son saved your life and shot the son of a bitch who was trying to kill you.” His hand was poised over the phone which was on its third ring, but his gaze was locked with hers.
Surprised, she said, “Umm. Me, too.”
“You’re lucky.” Then he added, “Jeremy’s a good kid.” Blackwater actually flashed a quick smile, straight white teeth against bronzed skin. “And fortunately a damn good shot.”
“Thanks,” she said, then started down the hall to her office. She still wasn’t fond of the man, but it seemed like he was at least trying harder. Unless he was just blowing hot air up her skirt because he sensed she neither trusted nor liked him. He was smart enough to pull that off, she knew.
As she reached the door to her office, she heard him answer, “Sheriff Blackwater,” and the muscles in the back of her neck clenched. She had to remind herself to get over it. The office was his. Whether she trusted him or not, he was her boss. Until someone else was elected, or she quit, she’d just have to deal with him.
End of story.
Her hand searched frantically beneath the pillow, but her damn gun was missing!
Terrified, Anne-Marie sat bolt upright, her eyes narrowing, her mind racing. It was a dream. That was it. A very real nightmare.
“I’ve got it.” His voice was a raspy whisper over the wind screaming outside.
She blinked. Knew it was no dream. It was happening. He’d found her. Somehow. Someway. Her heart pounded, her courage flagged, and she wanted to melt into the couch.
You’re still alive. He’s got the gun, but you’re still alive. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill you . . .
And then she knew. Not kill. Torture. Maim.
Fight, damn it. Don’t give up.
How had he found her? How had he broken in and she not heard? How the hell had he plucked the gun from under her head without her waking? She licked suddenly dry lips and remembered her dreams, the hot breath against her neck, the waking and thinking someone was inside, then convincing herself otherwise. Had he been right beside her? Wit
Her insides curdled at the thought of him watching her sleep while she lay unaware. While her heart was hammering wildly, she tried to think, to plot out her escape. But there was nowhere to run in the storm. If she tried to leave, he’d catch her fast. Still, her gaze slid to the window, so near the door where he stood, blocking any chance of escape. If she flung herself over the back of the couch and tried to make it across the room and through the kitchen to the back door, no doubt he would be on her in less than a second.
No no no! Even if she was able to run outside, how far would she get barefoot in the snow, in the raging wind and driving storm?
Unless she made it to her SUV.
She could drive to the sheriff’s office.... Wait! Her phone! If she could somehow get away from him and call 9-1-1, she might have a chance.
Avery slim one.
Or she could try to reason with him.
Oh, yeah. Right. Like that had ever worked.
“What are you doing here?” she finally demanded when she had her wits about her. Fear had driven any lingering vestige of sleep from her mind. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she tried to see him more clearly, still in the same position at the door. She tried to make out his features, to read his expression.
“Come on, Anne-Marie,” he said, his voice a little clearer, his faint Texas drawl perceptible. “Is that any way to greet your husband?”
Chapter 23
Grabbing a cup of decaf from the carafe in the lunchroom, Pescoli settled down at her desk. Though it was still early, the department was starting to come alive. Officers, talking, laughing, and shaking off the cold, were drifting into the building with the change of shifts. Phones rang and a common printer positioned off the hallway near Joelle’s desk hummed and clacked while the beast of a furnace wheezed as if it was on its last breath.
She sipped her weak-ass coffee and scanned her e-mail. Though she wouldn’t admit it to Blackwater, she’d spent a lot of her free time on Sunday going over the Bart Grayson suicide file, as much for Dan as for Hattie. She felt it was an exercise in futility, but it had seemed fitting somehow, almost cathartic. With her kids at Luke’s for the weekend, and Santana working on the new house, she’d put in some serious hours reviewing the years-old case and had tried to look at it with a new eye. But she’d found no hard evidence in the old reports that indicated Bartholomew Grayson had died by anything other than his own hand. Even though there was no suicide note left at the scene, nor message found in his belongings, nor conversation with a close friend or family member about taking his life, it still added up to the same conclusion. Friends and family alike had admitted how despondent Bart had been over the breakup of his marriage to Hattie. Apart from his widow, they, like the authorities, believed he’d ended it all. He’d died from suffocation by hanging himself in the barn, which was where his brother Cade had found him.
Bart Grayson’s death had been a tragedy, of course. Unfortunate. And probably preventable. He’d been a young, strapping man with two kids who, it seemed, had so much to live for.
Pescoli was certain everyone in the Grayson family, Dan included, had beat themselves up for not seeing the signs of Bart’s depression. No one had been aware of how deep his despair had run.
Still, the bare facts of the case all pointed to the man taking his own life.
She would have to call Hattie and tell her as much. No doubt Bart’s ex-wife still wouldn’t accept the truth. In Pescoli’s opinion, Hattie had been grappling with guilt ever since hearing the sad news about her ex and it was probably the root cause of her obsession with proving the suicide was really a murder. She fervently believed Bart would never willingly leave his daughters, that his love for them would have stopped him from taking his own life.
Pescoli wondered about the whole tangled web of Hattie Dorsey and the Grayson brothers. As rumor had it, Hattie’s love for Bart hadn’t exactly trumped her interest in the other men in his family. Then there was Cara, Dan’s first ex-wife, whom Pescoli had learned at the funeral was Hattie’s half sister. That was the family connection. It was all so intertwined, but hey, who was she to judge? Hattie had always had a fascination with all things Grayson.
Another aspect of the case was the insurance money. Bart had taken out two substantial policies with Hattie Grayson and her daughters listed as the beneficiaries. As it was, those benefits had never been paid, not because Bart had changed them, nor because he and Hattie had been divorced at the time of his death, but because Bart had taken his own life, thereby nullifying the payment. The insurance companies had been within their legal rights to refuse to pay. The upshot was that Hattie and her daughters had inherited Bart’s portion of the Grayson ranch, but they’d been cut out of several hundred thousand dollars that would have been theirs if Bart’s death was declared a murder.
Therein lay the problem. Hattie Grayson was not a rich woman and could really use the money. A single mom, she worked in her own catering business in order to support her children, no doubt struggling at times to make ends meet. She could probably sell her part of the Grayson ranch to the remaining brothers, but she hadn’t done that yet.
Money, in the form of insurance benefits, could be another reason beyond basic guilt that Bart’s ex and beneficiary was so stubbornly insistent that he hadn’t killed himself.
“The facts are the facts,” Pescoli said to herself, satisfied that Bart Grayson’s death was neither a mystery nor a homicide. The man took his own life.
She replaced the reports in the box Jeremy had brought in a few days earlier, then unzipped her bag to retrieve a banana.
God, she was hungry. Always, it seemed. So she’d eat, then, not half an hour later, puke.
Taking her first bite, she heard quick footsteps in the hallway and half-expected Joelle to appear. Instead, Alvarez nearly slid as she rounded the sharp corner into Pescoli’s office.
“Guess what?” Alvarez said.
“Not in the mood for twenty-questions.”
Alvarez actually flashed a smile, the first Pescoli had witnessed since Dan Grayson had been shot, and she was energized for the first time in weeks. “We got a hit.”
“A hit?” Pescoli repeated, and for a second or two, she forgot the hunger pangs that had been so overpowering only seconds before. “On the fingerprint?”
“Yeah.” Dark eyes sparking, Alvarez nodded. “It’s from a missing person from New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“Yep. A missing heiress who was disowned by her family. They filed the report, uncertain if she were alive or dead, but, I’d say from the prints we found, she’s very much alive. And deadly. Her name is Anne-Marie Calderone.”
“How do you know this already? It’s barely eight in the damn morning.”
“It’s earlier in New Orleans, so I’ve been in contact with them already. Been here since five.”
“Good God,” Pescoli said, aghast.
“Look, I couldn’t sleep. O’Keefe’s not here. The animals wanted to get up early, so the dog and I tried to go for a run, but it was too nasty. Nearly impossible, so I gave it up. Anyway, I had too much on my mind to sleep in,” she admitted. “Like you, right? You’re in earlier than usual.”
“Not at five friggin’ a.m.”
Alvarez’s smile faded a bit, and she glanced over her shoulder to the open doorway as if she thought someone might overhear. “It’s weird, you know,” she admitted over the rumbling of the furnace and the hard tread in the hallway as two deputies passed by the open door. “I thought that after the funeral, I’d be able to put everything in perspective. Get back to business here and make sure my personal life was on track, kind of sort things out, but . . .” She shrugged, her black hair shining nearly blue under the fluorescent fixtures on the ceiling.
Pescoli nodded. Sometimes it was eerie how Alvarez’s thoughts echoed her own feelings. “At least we have a lead now. Though, I gotta admit
“Women can be violent,” Alvarez countered, though she, too, sounded a little dubious.
“I know, I know, but . . . it’s hard for me to get my head around it.”
“Well, that’s the way it’s looking.”
“How was she careless enough to leave a print at each crime scene? Who the hell is Anne-Marie Calderone?”
“You’re not my husband,” Anne-Marie said, her fear bleeding into anger at the realization that the man standing in front of her had the nerve, the unmitigated gall to hold her at gunpoint and say he was her husband when they both knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t the maniac she’d expected, the butcher from whom she’d been running. The man by the door was Troy-damn-Ryder.
“And whose fault is that?” he drawled in the damnably sexy West Texas drawl she’d once found so intriguing.
She decided to duck that particular, painful question. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, her heart trip-hammering. A million emotions, none of them good, swirled inside her.
Troy was no killer. Or not that she knew of. Okay, he was rough around the edges and the law had never been something he’d worried about too much, but he wasn’t the brutal psychopath she’d thought was chasing her down, the person she’d thought had killed at least two women as some kind of warning to her. How could she have been so foolish to think those poor women who had been murdered had anything to do with her? Was she that much of an egomaniac? If she could jump to such conclusions, maybe she really was ready for the loony bin again, just as her husband had claimed.
And this damn cowboy in front of her, the one she’d tried, and failed, to marry . . . what is he doing here?
In the shadowy interior of her cabin, she struggled to see his features, to read his expression, but failed.
“Isn’t that what husbands do when their wives just take off? Track them down?”