Deserves to Die Part 21

"What's that?"

"I told you about Hattie Grayson and her insistence that Bart's death wasn't a suicide."

Alvarez asked, "Don't you have enough to do?"

Pescoli snorted. "I should have never told Hattie I'd look into it, but I did, and now I can't just ignore the file or she'll be calling every day." She set the file on her messy desk.

How Pescoli could ever find anything on a work surface cluttered with notes, cups, pens, and papers Alvarez didn't understand.

"I imagine I'll run into Hattie at the funeral on Sat.u.r.day, and she'll be asking me about Bart's suicide and make some ridiculous connection to Dan's murder. I thought I'd better read over the old reports, you know, get my ducks in a row." Pescoli rolled back her chair. "Anything new?"

Alvarez held up the cell phone in its plastic bag. "The kid who found it seems to have a little bit of larceny in his blood and his G.o.d-fearing mother is having nothing of it."

"Good thing," Pescoli said.

"Yeah, I'm glad to have the phone, but the mother-"Alvarez shook her head. "Let's just call Elaine Bender a piece of work and leave it at that." She brought her partner up to speed as Pescoli donned a pair of gloves and took out the phone.

She looked into the recent activity, the calls and texts and e-mail connections that had gone in and out, and said, "Looks like we'd better check out someone named Reggie."

Jessica's s.h.i.+ft was over at nine that night. Dead tired, her lower back aching from hours on her feet, her brain was exhausted from the mental strain of a double-s.h.i.+ft and not sleeping due to her wild dreams. She'd been dragging all day.

Misty had even seen fit to comment, "Not our usual Miss Merry Suns.h.i.+ne today, are we?"

Jessica had wanted to tell her to shove it, but had held her tongue.

She was tired, cranky, and hungry. She hadn't been able to choke down any of the leftovers that had been congealing on the counter for the better part of the evening. They'd consisted of an order of fries proclaimed "too salty" by a customer, and a wilted salad that had been topped by French dressing when the patron had insisted she'd said, "dressing on the side." As was the custom at the Midway Diner, orders that were returned to the kitchen weren't immediately thrown out, but left for the staff, should they be interested, before they were tossed into the trash.

"Waste not, want not," Nell had professed to them enough times that it had become a standing joke behind the boss's back. The trouble was that Marlon took Nell's suggestion to heart and somehow, in between clearing and resetting tables, was.h.i.+ng dishes, and even swabbing the floors for spills, he was able to inhale anything that was placed in the return area of the counter. Hamburgers, chicken strips, Diet c.o.kes that were supposed to have been the real thing and desserts that were just "too rich" or "not what I thought" or "really, I said coconut cream, not banana," somehow got gobbled up while he was on the job. So all that was left were the unappealing cold fries and wilted lettuce.

She didn't waste any time leaving and was glad Misty and Marlon were handling the few stragglers who might wander in. She just wanted to get home.

As if that cold, dark cabin could ever be considered anything close to what she would think of as her home.

Inside the Tahoe, she flipped on the engine and the wipers as desultory flakes of snow were drifting from the heavens. Her stomach rumbled and though it seemed ridiculous after working around food in a diner for most of the day, she decided to stop at the local pizza parlor that she'd spied earlier in the week.

Within ten minutes, she was pulling into a parking spot on the street one block away from Dino's Italian Pizzeria. She hurried inside and the sharp smells of tomato sauce and oregano hit her in a warm, welcoming wave. The crowd was thinning out, and it didn't take long to reach the counter and order a small pizza to go. As she waited, she sat at a table in the corner and watched people coming and going, attacked by more than one pang of desperation. Here were people, all involved in their personal lives-teenagers goofing around with friends, even blowing the papers off straws at each other; a frazzled mother trying to corral three stair-step toddlers, all of whom made a beeline to the ice cream counter; other tweens playing video games in an arcade; a twentysomething couple who held hands as they decided on what kind of pizza to order. Everyday people. Ordinary lives. With the common stresses and worries of normal living.

No one running for his or her life.

No one concerned that a crazed husband was intent on killing her.

"Pizza to go for Williams," a teenager behind the counter called and she was out of her chair in an instant. She collected her order and carried the box outside. Snow was still threatening, a few solitary flakes drifting from the sky, catching in the lamplight. Cars rolled by on the quiet streets and she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Don't be a fool. No one's followed you.

But she kept up her pace and sensed her heartbeat beginning to increase, her pulse pounding. Last night's dream crawled through her brain in a frightening memory that she struggled to shake off.

The street was deserted, nothing to worry about, not a soul on the icy sidewalks, no car moving slowly along the snowy asphalt.

You're fine. Nothing to worry about.

A figure rounded the corner in front of her and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

But it was nothing, just a woman walking her dogs. Jessica let out her breath slowly and was about to step into the street when the woman called her name. "You're Jessica," she said in a voice that was cold as the night.

Jessica hesitated. The knife in her bra would be hard to reach because of her coat, and the pistol was tucked under the seat of the SUV. "Yes," she said. "Do I know you?"

"I've seen you," the woman said, advancing slowly in her long, white hooded coat. Her dogs were large and s.h.a.ggy, their heads lowered, their gold eyes looking upward to hers. Though not on leashes, they kept pace with their mistress, noiselessly moving forward, staying close to her side. "You visited my dreams, Anne-Marie. You worry me."

"What did you say?" Jessica stopped. Aside from Cade, no one in this town knew her real name. "I'm sorry, you're mistaken."

"Am I?" The woman was so serene, almost ghostly.

Realization flashed. She must be Grace Perchant with her wolf-dogs and claims of talking with the dead.

"You're in danger." Still Grace approached.

"From whom? Or what?" Jessica asked, poised for flight. Where the h.e.l.l were all the people? It wasn't that late. Why wasn't someone coming out of Dino's or the pub down the street?

The woman closed the distance between them. Under the lamplight, Jessica saw that her eyes were light green and piercing, her pale blond hair mixed with gray, strands blowing around her face where it escaped her hood. Her skin was so white it appeared almost bloodless.

"From him," the odd woman clarified in that same emotionless voice.

"Who?"

"You know, Anne-Marie." The pale woman seemed so certain of herself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jessica lied.

Grace's lips twisted into a disbelieving smile, but she didn't argue. Instead, in a voice without inflection, she said, "You're no longer safe. Trust no one."

"Lady-" Jessica began in protest.

Grace struck as quickly as a snake, her hand streaking forward, her fingers wrapping over Jessica's forearm.

Jessica gasped and dropped the box holding her pizza. "Let go of me!"

"No one," Grace repeated then released her grasp.

Neither dog so much as glanced at the cardboard container though the lid had popped open, pizza slices jumbling together.

Freak, Jessica thought. Weirdo! Her pulse raced, fear and adrenaline pumping through her blood as she picked up the ruined pizza.

She glanced back as Grace added, "Remember. Not a soul."

Jessica stood up, shaken. "Okay."

To the dogs, Grace ordered softly, "Sheena. Bane. Come." Then she walked across the street and disappeared into the darkness of an alley.

Her appet.i.te gone, Jessica hurried to her vehicle. She tossed the box onto the pa.s.senger seat. How did that woman know my name and what the h.e.l.l was she prattling on about danger? How could she know? How the h.e.l.l could she know?

Fingers shaking, nerves stretched to the breaking point, Jessica hustled into the driver's seat and started the Chevy. The smell of pepperoni, garlic, and onion was nearly overpowering.

Now, of course, she saw others on the street-two guys hanging out by the pub, smoking near the doorway; the couple she'd seen in the pizzeria huddling close together as they made their way to a sedan parked just around the corner from Dino's; a Prius cruising past in electric mode. Where had they been during her exchange with Grace?

She started to pull onto the street and was rewarded with a blast of a loud horn. She jumped, hit the brakes, and watched as a Jeep painted in camouflage nearly clipped her. The driver with a shaved head and a furious glare looked across the pa.s.senger seat and flipped up his palm as if to say, Stupid woman driver! Watch out!

Once the Jeep had pa.s.sed, she pulled out and drove, checking her rearview mirror every five seconds, trying not to be rattled, telling herself that no one was following her. Yet, despite all her internal pep talks, the weird woman's warning echoed through her brain.

Trust no one.

Chapter 19.

"I found her." Lying on his bed in his room at the River View, his cell phone pressed against his ear, Ryder stared at his computer monitor. The grainy black and white image was clear enough to observe Anne-Marie as she slept restlessly on the old couch in her cabin. He watched as "Jessica," or, really, Anne-Marie, tossed and turned, her pistol tucked under her pillow, her sleep broken and tortured. He felt more than one niggle of guilt for observing her every move, but he reminded himself it was just a job, nothing more.

At least, that's the level to which it had dissolved.

"You're sure it's her?" the voice on the other end asked, the slight Louisianan accent discernible.

"Oh, yeah." s.h.i.+fting, the back of his head moving against the stacked pillows, Ryder nodded as if the SOB on the other end of the wireless connection could actually see him.

"Why haven't you finished the job?"

Good question. "I had to be certain. Now I am."

"Then get to it."

"I will, when the time is right. She should have a day or two off work."

"She works?" A sneer in the voice.

"She's a waitress."

"My, my." A clucking of the tongue. "How the mighty have fallen." Satisfaction oozed through the phone.

Ryder wondered again why he'd ever agreed to do this job. The answer was stone-cold simple. He'd wanted to chase her down. He wanted to face her. He wanted her to know that it was he who had found her.

"So what's the problem?"

"As I said, I'm waiting for her to not be expected at her job so I can get a head start before anyone gets wise and realizes she's missing."

"Won't they just think she took off? No one really knows her."

"I can't take a chance. The extra twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours, will give me a head start."

"I don't understand." Obvious irritation came through the phone.

"We don't need any interference from the police," Ryder pointed out.

A pause.

He could almost hear the gears turning in the head nearly a thousand miles away.

"Just don't screw this up."

"I won't."

"Good. Because it's been awhile. I've been patient. Either she's been extremely elusive or you've f.u.c.ked up. Or maybe a little of both."

"I said I'd handle it." Ryder's eyes focused on the screen where Anne-Marie was still sleeping. He was reminded of waking up next to her, the smell of her hair mixed with the odor of recent s.e.x causing him to second-guess his need to run her to the ground.

Again.

He witnessed her s.h.i.+ft again. One arm stretched over her head, her eyebrows drew together, and his guts wrenched.

"Just end this," he was advised, then the connection was severed.

The woman on the screen opened her eyes wide, startled, instantly awake as if through some invisible cosmic connection, she'd heard the conversation and was ready to bolt.

"You'd better get down here," Alvarez said as Pescoli groggily answered her cell. She'd spent the night with Santana in the new house again, the sun already up and s.h.i.+ning, beams streaming through the windows.

"Why?" she asked, sitting up and pulling the sleeping bag over her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she tried to shake the cobwebs from her brain. Beside her, a disturbed Santana rolled closer to her, one arm circling her waist.

Alvarez said, "Could be a break. The lab found a print on Calypso Pope's bag and get this. It looks like it matches the partial found on Sheree Cantnor's shoe."

As if the missing digit and ring weren't enough to tie the two victims together, but at least it was physical evidence.

"I'm on my way." Pescoli pushed her mussed hair from her eyes as she reached for her clothes.

Santana opened a bleary eye.

"Gotta run," she explained, yanking on her underwear and jeans, then reaching for her bra. "Possible big break in the case."

He didn't argue, didn't so much as mention that it was the weekend as he'd learned long ago that Pescoli's work took precedence over her free time. "What about today?"

"How 'bout I meet you at the funeral?" she suggested. "I'll go with Alvarez and the officers from the station, and you and I can hook up with the kids then. Jeremy is supposed to pick up Bianca at Luke's place and they'll peel off after the service."

"Works for me," Santana said, for once not trying to lure her back into the bed, which was really just sleeping bags thrown on the floor. He flung off the covers, got to his feet, and walked naked to the French doors where he looked through the clear panes to the grounds and lake. "Good day."

Pulling her sweater over her head, she said, "For a funeral?"