Deserves to Die Part 6

Jeremy's expression grew dark and he swore again, under his breath. Then he leaned hard against the counter where the remains of breakfast-two empty bowls and a half-eaten piece of toast left on a napkin-had spent the day.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d really killed him?" His jaw was set, reminding Pescoli of her first husband, Joe Strand, Jeremy's father. As her son matured, he looked more and more like his dad and the funny thing was he even displayed some of Joe's mannerisms, though he'd never really known his father, surely couldn't remember him. They shared the same build, though Jeremy topped his father's six-foot frame by about two inches and his features were still slightly softer than she remembered Joe's were, but the way he threw a ball, or looked over his shoulder? Pure Joe Strand. That part didn't bother her. No. The bad news, at least in her opinion, was that Jeremy had decided to follow in his father's footsteps by becoming a cop. Just like his dad. Even though his father had lost his life in the line of duty.

Don't blame Joe. You're on the force, too. A cop's life is all your son has ever known.

Some of the blame definitely rested on her shoulders.

Though Pescoli loved the fact that he was enrolled in school again and was thrilled that he finally seemed to have some direction, she hated the idea of him becoming a member of the police force after seeing what the dedication to protecting and serving had done to their own family.

How often had she rued her vocation? Yeah, she loved being a cop, but she'd be a fool if she didn't admit that the stress and long hours of her job hadn't taken their toll on parenting her kids.

And now there's going to be another one. Oh, Lord.

"But didn't you say he was improving?" Jeremy asked. "How could this happen?"

"I guess he was more fragile than anyone, the doctors included, realized. The doc in charge, Zingler, he's double-checking everything," she said but didn't add that what really bothered her was that there were two patients who had flatlined about the same time. The first, just seconds before Grayson, happened to a patient named Donnerly who had over thirty years on Grayson. But he'd survived. Of course, he hadn't suffered the same kind of attack as the sheriff, but Pescoli couldn't help but wonder if the heart stoppages had happened in the reverse order, if Grayson flatlining had been the first emergency, would the hospital staff have been quicker to respond? Would he have survived? It just didn't sit well with her.

"So, what happens now?" Jeremy wanted to know.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's not good down at the station. Morale is at an all-time low, and that's saying something." She hung up her jacket on the hall tree and noticed the snow on her boots was already melting, making puddles. "Everyone's upset. Even Joelle isn't interested in decorating for Valentine's Day, which is probably a good thing, because Blackwater definitely isn't into it." She scowled remembering his recent edict about keeping the offices spotless and professional at all times. That would be a trick considering the drunks, suspects, informants, criminals, and general sc.u.m of the earth who were dragged through the hallways of the Pinewood County Sheriff's Department on a daily basis. "Hopefully he's only temporary."

"You don't like him because he's taking Grayson's job," Jeremy pointed out.

"That's not it. Well, not all of it."

"I don't think he's all that bad."

She glared at her son as if he'd uttered sacrilege, which he had. "You're only there part-time. Very part-time. As a volunteer. You don't really work for him."

"Yet." Jeremy caught his mother eyeing the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar and actually picked up the two bowls and placed them into the sink with the stack of ever-mounting pots, pans, and plates. Of course, he couldn't quite seem to find the dishwasher, but, Pescoli reminded herself, baby steps.

Not that long ago, her son was adrift, playing video games all day, smoking weed on the side, and chewing tobacco. Things were improving. He was growing up. Yeah, he still chewed. And of course, he continued to play video games, but even that had slowed down a bit and she thought his pot smoking had abated. Thinking about it, she unconsciously crossed her fingers.

As far as she could tell, Jeremy's general "hanging out" with some of his suspect friends had tapered off and his steady girlfriend of the past few years had moved away, thank G.o.d. It had only been a few weeks, but without Heidi Brewster as a distraction, Jeremy already seemed more focused.

His job at Corky's Gas and Go coupled with volunteering at the station kept him busy and he was talking about moving out with a friend. Again. So far, he'd bounced back after a couple half-a.s.sed attempts at living on his own. She'd already suggested that he move into the room over the garage in Santana's new home, but Jeremy had balked. Residing in any building attached to his mother's place of residence obviously didn't qualify as "moving out."

Considering her own rebellious history as a teen, she wasn't about to argue.

He saved your life.

That much was true. If it hadn't been for Jeremy taking aim at Grayson's killer during an attack, she wouldn't be alive.

"Give Blackwater a chance," Jeremy suggested, opening the refrigerator door and hanging on it again, as if somehow the contents within had changed in the last five minutes. "I think he's a good guy."

"We'll see." She wasn't convinced.

He discovered a previously overlooked slab of pie that had to be a week old and pulled it from the depths. "Since we can't have Grayson back," he said soberly.

She nodded, swallowed, then checked her watch. "So where's your sister?"

"At Lana's. Studying," he added dryly.

"Ahh. Well, you know, they could be."

He grabbed a fork that had been left near the sink, then carried the pie into the living room and plopped onto the worn couch. "They could be," he allowed. Both dogs, hoping he might drop a bit of food, followed at a brisk trot and positioned themselves at his feet, their ears c.o.c.ked, their eyes beseeching.

"You know something I should?" Pescoli asked, following him into the living room.

"Just a gut feeling. Kinda like your cop instinct."

"Does she need a ride?"

"What she needs is a car."

"So she tells me. Every day." She found her cell phone to text her daughter.

"Lucky says she can have one. He'll buy it for her."

"And the insurance? And the gas?" Pescoli hated the fact that her ex could offer up extravagant gifts with no strings attached and, when they didn't work out, leave her to pick up the pieces and deal with the fallout.

"That, you'll have to talk to him about."

When h.e.l.l freezes over, she thought darkly, relieved to feel something other than grief, if even for a moment, as she texted Bianca. Briefly, she considered having a beer, then immediately banished the thought. A "cold one" after work, one of life's pleasures, was out the window for around seven or eight more months.

"Have the dogs been fed?" she asked.

"Do they look like they've eaten?" Taking a huge bite of chocolate and whipped cream, he found the television's remote and switched stations.

"Hey, guys!" She found the opened bag of dog food in the pantry, scooped kibblets into two metal bowls and turned to find both animals waiting expectantly. "Hungry?"

Cisco spun in tight little circles while Sturgis swept the floor with his tail.

"Here ya go." As she fed the dogs, she received an incoming text from Bianca saying she had a ride and would be home within the hour.

Good. In time for dinner, whatever the h.e.l.l that was going to be. Spaghetti out of ajar? Tuna ca.s.serole or cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from a can? Something Bianca would eat. She was beyond finicky and Pescoli was keeping an eye on her because she was obsessed with her weight, her body, and wearing the tiny bikini her stepmother had bought her for Christmas. At her stepmother's encouragement, Bianca was talking about becoming a model, so there were all kinds of comments about nutrition and exercise, carbs and fat, calories and workouts falling from her daughter's lips. Eating healthy would be great, but the operative word was eating, not starving. Working out, again, a great idea, but not to the point of pa.s.sing out. Pescoli wished Mich.e.l.le, a smart enough woman who was fixated by her own looks, would just leave her daughter alone and quit putting weird ideas into her head. As a teenager, Bianca already had enough of those.

So what could she whip up in the kitchen that her daughter would find palatable? Nothing she'd already considered and, anyway, the thought of cooking made her already queasy stomach turn over. Maybe takeout, she thought, opening the drawer where they kept pencils, note pads, out-of-date telephone books, and menus for their favorite restaurants in Grizzly Falls. She'd just pulled out the menu for Wild Will's when her cell phone bleeped and she saw Santana's name and picture on the screen.

"Hey," she greeted him.

"I just heard about the sheriff." Santana's voice was grim.

"Yeah. Not good."

"You okay?" he asked.

"Not great," she admitted. "But I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." That was a lie.

"I'm coming over."

"No. Don't. Look, Santana, uh, I need to deal with the kids first." He hesitated and she sensed he thought she was shutting him out. "Seriously. I'm fine. The kids will be, too, but we have to deal."

Again silence.

"I need you to understand," she said.

"Okay. But, I'm here."

"I know. I . . . thank you."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll call. It's crazy at the station. Weird. I . . . just give me a little s.p.a.ce to sort this all out."

"I always do," he said and she squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn't shed a tear.

She hung up quickly. Afraid he might tell her he loved her and want to talk about their upcoming wedding. She just felt too raw and uncertain. It wasn't that she didn't love him. She did. Totally. But it was hard for her to be vulnerable, and uttering those three little words could break the dam of her emotions. "I'm sorry," she whispered as if he could hear her and was so glad he couldn't.

Jeremy called from the living room, "Hey, Mom. Maybe you wanna see this."

Still holding the menu, she walked from the kitchen and saw Hooper Blackwater's image on the screen. In full uniform, standing ramrod straight in front of the half-masted flags that were snapping in the wind, snow blowing around him, he was a somber and solid officer of the law. Looking directly into the camera's lens, he vowed to prosecute Dan Grayson's killer to the maximum extent of the law.

"This is what I was talking about," she said, glaring at the screen. "It's called grandstanding." She slid a look at her son. "And for the record? I don't like it."

Chapter 7.

Talk about doom and gloom. The sheriff's office couldn't have been more somber if it were draped in black and a funeral dirge was playing throughout the hallways. Everyone was grim, feeling Grayson's loss, going about their business in whispered tones, not smiling, just getting through the day. Joelle had toned it down to a long charcoal-colored dress with a lighter gray sweater. Though she still wore three-inch heels, their clip was decidedly less sharp as she made her way down the hallway. Now that he'd spoken to the press and made his position clear, Blackwater had even holed himself into his office.

Pescoli hated the department's vibe as well as the empty feeling that had stayed with her throughout the night and followed after her like a shadow. She tried burying herself in work, but found herself distracted.

When Alvarez stuck her head into the office, Pescoli looked up, rolled back her chair, and said, "Come on, let's go," before her partner could utter a word. "I'll drive." She yanked her keys from her purse.

"Where?"

"To the morgue." Pescoli was already standing and reaching for her jacket and sidearm. "I can't stand this place another second."

"Okay."

"Maybe the ME can tell us about our Jane Doe. Any luck IDing her yet?"

Alvarez stepped out of the doorway to let Pescoli pa.s.s. "I talked to Taj in Missing Persons and so far no reports of anyone resembling our victim have been filed."

Pescoli's bad mood didn't get any better. As she waited for Alvarez to grab her own jacket, scarf, and gloves, she wondered about the woman found in the frozen creek. Though it wasn't conclusive that foul play had occurred, it seemed likely.

Once Alvarez slipped her cell phone into her pocket, they were on the move again, working their way to the back door, skirting a few solemn-faced officers walking in the other direction.

"It's personal," Alvarez said as she pushed open the door to the outside and a gust of frigid air swept inside. "If our vic was killed, I mean."

Squinting against the snow flurries, Pescoli shot a look at her partner. "I'm betting a year's salary that she didn't slice off her own finger, find a way to the O'Halleran ranch, and fling herself into the creek to commit suicide." They reached the Jeep just as Pescoli hit the b.u.t.ton twice to unlock all the doors. Across the snow-covered roof, she added, "That's not how it's usually done. And an accident? With a recently lopped off finger?" She opened the driver's door and got behind the wheel.

"I'm just saying all the evidence isn't in yet."

"Sometimes evidence only proves what you already know." Pescoli started out of the lot, but waited for a snowplow to pa.s.s. Moving slowly, it piled a berm of snow and clods to the side of the road, impeding the driveways of the surrounding businesses but freeing up the street.

Rather than follow the slow-moving plow, she turned in the wrong direction for a few blocks, then circled back and headed for the main road leading to Missoula, and the bas.e.m.e.nt of the very hospital where Dan Grayson had drawn his last, weak breath. "So if our Jane Doe's a homicide victim, why do you think it was personal?"

"The ring finger. That makes a statement."

"Could be we have a nutcase who collects fingers," Pescoli said.

"And possibly rings? Wedding rings? Engagement rings? What's the significance there?" Alvarez was thinking hard, absently rubbing her chin between her finger and thumb.

"Maybe just the handiest finger."

Alvarez splayed the fingers of her left hand in front of her. "Nope. One of the hardest to lop off. It's significant."

"So we've got ourselves another psycho. You know, we've been getting more than our share."

"Uh-huh." She was still staring at her hand and seemed lost in thought. "And why the creek? Was she taken there? Drowned?" Her lips compressed as Pescoli slowed for a light. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this one."

Pescoli actually laughed. "Like Grace Perchant?"

Alvarez shot her a p.i.s.sy look.

Grace was one of the local nut jobs. She swore she held conversations with ghosts, could commune with spirits from the other side of life, poor trapped souls who hadn't completely pa.s.sed. She also owned a couple wolf hybrids and had come into town with them in tow to warn some of the citizens about their murky futures. It was a little unsettling.

"More like you and your gut instincts."

The light changed and Pescoli held herself back from pointing out that Alvarez had always dismissed her sometimes unscientific approach to a case. "Here we go," she said, spying a coffee kiosk, then making a quick turn to pull behind a dirty red Jetta that was just pulling out. As she found her wallet, she asked Alvarez, "Want anything?"

"Sure. Tea. Hot. Some morning blend. Whatever they have."

"Got it." Pescoli turned to face the girl who was standing within the kiosk, waiting. Quickly rolling down her window, Pescoli repeated Alvarez's request and added a decaf latte for herself.

As the barista turned away, Alvarez asked, "What happened to black coffee?"